POEMS, 

PLAYS AND ESSAYS, 

BY 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B 

WITH 

A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON HIS POETRY, 

BY 

BY JOHN AIKIN, M, D. 

AND 

AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 

BY 

HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. ESQ. 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1854. 



(\ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 

Phillips, Sampson, & Co. 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CONTENTS, 



Page. 

Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author ..... 7 

Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith, by Dr. Aikin 38 

Verses on the death of Dr. Goldsmith 55 



POEMS. 

The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society 66 

The Deserted Village , 84 

The Hermit, a Ballad 101 

The Haunch of Venison, to Lord Clare 110 

Retaliation 115 

Postscript 122 

The Double Transformation, a Tale 123 

The Gift: to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent-garden 127 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 128 . 

The Logicians Refuted: Imitation of Dean Swift 129 

A new Simile : in the Manner of Swift 131 



IV CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber 133 

A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom Caesar forced 

upon the Stage 134 

An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 135 

On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning 136 

The Clown's Eeply 137 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 137 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon 137 

Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 138 

Stanzas on Woman 138 

Sonnet 139 

Songs 139 

Song, intended to have been sung in the Comedy of 

She Stoops to Conquer 140 

Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 140 

Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters 142 

Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley 144 

Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley 147 

Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 149 

Threnodia Augustalis 151 

The Captivity : an Oratorio 162 

Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith 176 



PLAYS. 

The Good-Natured Man, a Comedy 177 

She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a Night ... . 269 



CONTENTS. V 

ESSAYS. 

Page. 

Introduction 367 

Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander and Septi- 

mius, taken from a Byzantine Historian 371 

On Happiness of Temper 375 

Description of various Clubs 380 

On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or Poverty 390 

On Generosity and Justice 397 

On the Education of Youth 401 

On the Versatility of popular Eavor 414 

Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature 418 

Rules for Behavior 421 

Rules for Raising the Devil 422 

Beau Tibbs ; a Character 423 

Beau Tibbs — continued 426 

On the Irresolution of Youth 431 

On Mad Dogs 435 

On the increased Love of Life with Age 440 

Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of Dress 443 

Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or, the Wisdom of Providence in 

the moral Government of the World 449 

On the English Clergy, and Popular Pi'eachers 458 

On the Advantages to be derived from sending a judicious 

Traveller into Asia 464 

Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in Eastcheap 469 

On Quack Doctors 485 

Adventures of a Strolling Player .. . 489 

Rules to be observed at a Russian Assembly 500 

The Genius of Love, an Eastern Apologue 502 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Distresses of an English disabled Soldier 507 

On the Frailty of Man 514 

On Friendship 516 

Folly of attempting to learn Wisdom in ^Retirement .... 520 
Letter, by a Common- Council-man at the time of the Coro- 
nation 524 

A second Letter, describing the Coronation 527 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 1 



BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 

It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to 
those characters in literary history who are emphatically favor- 
ites, and to glance at the causes of their popularity. Such 
speculations frequently afford more important results than the 
mere gratification of. curiosity. They often lead to a clearer 
perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate the princi- 
ple and methods by which the common mind may be most 
successfully addresse.d- The advantage of such retrospective 
inquiries is still greater at a period like the present, when there 
is such an obvious tendency to innovate upon some of the best 
established theories of taste ; when the passion for novelty 
seeks for such unlicensed indulgence, and invention seems to 
exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In literature, 
especially, we appear to be daily losing one of the most valu- 
able elements — simplicity. The prevalent taste is no longer 
gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite for 
what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompanied by any dis- 
criminating demand for the true and original ] and yet, expe- 
rience has fully proved that these last are the only permanent 
elements of literature ; and no healthy mind, cognizant of its 
own history, is unaware that the only intellectual aliment 

* From 1 " Thoughts on the Poets," by H. T. T. 



Vlll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

which never palls upon the taste, is that which is least indebt- 
ed to extraneous accompaniments for its relish. 

It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The study 
of the old masteS3 may sometimes make the modern artist de- 
spair of his own efforts ; but if he have the genius to discover, 
and follow out the great principle upon which they wrought, 
he will not have contemplated their works in vain. He will 
have learned that devotion to Nature is the grand secret of 
progress in Art, and that the success of her votaries depends 
upon the singleness, constancy, and intelligence of their wor- 
ship. If there is not enthusiasm enough to kindle this flame 
in its purity, nor energy sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required 
at that high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priest- 
hood of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfigura- 
tion was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveliness, 
he replied — there would still be an infinite distance between 
his work and the existent original. In this profound and vivid 
perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin 
of those lovely creations, which, for more than three hundred 
years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of the 
pen as the pencil, that what is drawn from life and the heart, 
alone bears the impress of immortality. Yet the practical 
faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The 
writers of our times are constantly making use of artificial 
enginery. They have, for the most part, abandoned the in- 
tegrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. 
There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural ; and when 
we turn from the midst of the forced and hot-bed products of 
the modern school, and ramble in the garden of old English 
literature, a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the spirit, 
like the first breath of mountain air to the weary wayfarer. 



GOLDSMITH. IX 

There are few writers of the period more generally beloved 
than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries, Burke excelled 
him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth of thought. 
The former continues to enjoy a larger share of admiration, 
and the latter of respect, but the labors of their less pretending 
companion have secured him a far richer heritage of love. 
Of all posthumous tributes to genins, this seems the most truly 
desirable. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is 
called forth by more interesting characteristics than talent. 
It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of the individ- 
ual with his works, and looking beyond the mere embodiment 
of his intellect, it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his 
character which has made itself felt even through the artificial 
medium of writing. The authors are comparatively few, who 
have awakened this feeling of personal interest and affection. 
It is common, indeed, for any writer of genius to inspire emo- 
tions of gratitude in the breasts of those susceptible to the 
charm, but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is 
vivified and elevated into positive aiFection. And few, I 
apprehend, among the wits and poets of old England, have 
more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have said 
this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. There is, 
indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the thought of one 
of the gifted of our race, attaching to himself countless hearts 
by the force of a charm woven in by-gone years, when envi- 
roned by neglect and discouragement. Though a late, it is a 
beautiful recompense, transcending mere critical approbation, 
or even the reverence men offer to the monuments of mind. 
We can conceive of no motive to effort which can be present- 
ed to a m?'. of true feeling, like the hope of winning the love 
of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

purpose than that entertained by heartless ambition. The 
appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it is to 
the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically 
I rich. It gains its possessor warm friends instead of mere 
admirers. To establish such an inheritance in the breast of 
humanity, were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an 
offering not only to intellectual but to moral graces, and its 
possession argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than 
genius itself. It eloquently indicates that its subject is not 
only capable of interesting the general mind by the power of 
his creations, but, of captivating the feelings by the earnest 
beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it 
the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers 
of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They 
wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon 
the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself, 
with the regretful tenderness with which we look upon the 
portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, 
dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated operas of 
Rosini and some of the German composers, but the memory 
of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of 
Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being spoken 
of always with the epithet " poor " attached to his name, is 
sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, 
then, the peculiar attraction of his writings, and wherein con- 
sists the spell which has so long rendered his works the favor- 
ites of so many and such a variety of readers ? 

The primary and all pervading charm of Goldsmith is his 
truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic, 
as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. We 
see it displayed in the remarkable frankness which distinguish- 



GOLDSMITH. XI 

ed his intercourse with others, and in that winning simplicity 
which so frequently excited the contemptuous laugh of the 
worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more val- 
uable sympathies of less perverted natures. All who have 
sketched his biography unite in declaring, that he could not 
dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his want of 
tact in concealing a defect, in the story which is related of 
him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice 
in Edinburgh — when, his only velvet coat being deformed by 
a huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while in 
the drawing-room, to cover it in the most awkward manner 
with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness which led him to 
so candid and habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson 
ridiculed him for so freely describing the state of his feelings 
during the representation of his first play ; and, throughout 
his life, the perfect honesty of his spirit made him the subject 
of innumerable practical jokes. Credulity is perhaps a weak- 
ness almost inseparable from eminently truthful characters. 
Yet, if such is the case, it does not in the least diminish our 
faith in the superiority and value of such characters. Waiving 
all moral considerations, we believe it can be demonstrated 
that truth is one of the most essential elements of real great- 
ness, and surest means of eminent success. Management, 
chicanery and cunning, may advance men in the career of 
the world ; it may forward the views of the politician, and 
clear the way of the diplomatist. But when humanity is to be 
addressed in the universal language of genius ; when, through 
the medium of literature and art, man essays to reach the 
heart of his kind, the more sincere the appeal, the surer its 
effect ; the more direct the call, and deeper the response. In 
a word, the more largely truth enters into a work, the more 



XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

certain the fame of its author. But a few months since, I saw 
the Parisian populace crowding around the church where the 
remains of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity 
alone gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. "When 
Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of success, 
threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned from the 
fast-brightening vision of renown, to weep. 

Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved as the 
ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the look of 
welcome is unaffected — that the friendly grasp is from the 
heart, and we regret their departure as an actual loss. And 
not less winningly shines this high and sacred principle through 
the labors of genius. It immortalizes history — it is the true 
origin of eloquence, and constitutes the living charm of poetry. 
When Goldsmith penned the lines — 

" To me more dear, congenial to my heart r 
One native charm than all the gloss of art," 

he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded the 
secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the clearness 
of his own soul which reflected so truly the imagery of life. 
He did but transcribe the unadorned convictions that glowed 
in his mind, and faithfully traced the pictures which nature 
threw upon the mirror of his fancy. Hence the unrivalled 
excellence of his descriptions. Rural life has never found a 
sweeter eulogist. To countless memories have his village land- 
scapes risen pleasantly, when the " murmur " rose at eventide. 
Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher de- 
lighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear as the good 
Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of many an ardent 
student have been beguiled by his portraiture of a country 



GOLDSMITH. xul 

clergyman — brightening the dim vista of futurity as his own 
ideal of destiny ; and who has not, at times, caught the very 
solace of retirement from his sweet apostrophe ? 

The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by observa- 
tion. He was not one of those who regard books as the only, 
or even the principal sources of knowledge. He recognized 
and delighted to study the unwritten lore so richly spread over 
the volume of nature, and shadowed forth so variously from 
the scenes of every-day life and the teachings of individual ex- 
perience. There is a class of minds, second to none in native 
acuteness and reflective power, so constituted as to nourish 
almost exclusively by observation. Too impatient of restraint 
to endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly 
alive to every idea and truth which is evolved from life. With- 
out a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the German 
student for years to his familiar tomes, they suffer not a single 
impression which events or character leave upon their mem- 
ories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, in a great measure, 
in the history of the past, the present is not allowed to pass 
without eliciting their intelligent comment. Unskilled in the 
technicalities of learning, they contrive to appropriate, with 
surprising facility, the wisdom born of the passing moment. 
No striking trait of character — no remarkable effect in nature 
■ — none of the phenomena of social existence, escape them. 
Like Hogarth, they are constantly enriching themselves with 
sketches from life ; and as he drew street-wonders upon his 
thumb-nail, they note and remember, and afterwards elaborate 
and digest whatever of interest experience affords. Goldsmith 
was a true specimen of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his 
claim to the title of scholar, by research and study ; but the 
field most congenial to his taste, was the broad universe of na- 



XIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

ture and man. It was his love of observation which gave zest 
to the roving life he began so early to indulge. His boyhood 
was passed in a constant succession of friendly visits. He was 
ever migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to that 
of another ; and on these oscasions, as well as when at home, 
he was silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily 
traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed, are so highly in- 
debted to personal observation for their materials. It is well 
known that the original of the Vicar of Wakefield was his own 
father. Therein has he embodied in a charming manner his 
early recollections of his parent, and the picture is rendered 
still more complete in his papers on the " Man in Black." The 
inimitable description, too, of the " Village Schoolmaster," is 
drawn from the poet's early teacher ; and the veteran who 
" shouldered his crutch and told how fields were won," had 
often shared the hospitality of his father's roof. The leading 
incident in " She Stoops to Conquer," was his own adventure ; 
and, there is little question, that, in the quaint tastes of Mr. 
Burchell, he aimed to exhibit many of his peculiar traits. But 
it is not alone in the leading characters of his novel, plays and 
poems, that we discover Goldsmith's observing power. It is 
equally discernible throughout his essays and desultory papers. 
Most of his illustrations are borrowed from personal experience, 
and his opinions are generally founded upon experiment. His 
talent for fresh and vivid delineation, is ever most prominently 
displayed when he is describing what he actually witnessed, or 
drawing from the rich fund of his early impressions or subse- 
quent adventures. No appeal to humor, curiosity, or imagina- 
tion, was unheeded; and it is the blended pictures he contrived 
to combine from these cherished associations, that impart sp 
lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find him 



GOLDSMITH. XV 

noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a foreign 
peasantry ; and another, studying the operations of a spider at 
his garret window, — now busy in nomenclating the peculiari- 
ties of the Dutch, and anon, alluding to the exhibition of 
Cherokee Indians. The natural effect of this thirst for ex- 
perimental knowledge, was to beget a love for foreign travel. 
Accordingly, we find that Goldsmith, after exhausting the nar- 
row circle which his limited means could compass at home, 
projected a continental tour, and long cherished the hope of visit- 
ing the East. Indeed, we could scarcely have a stronger proof 
of his enthusiasm, than the Jong journey he undertook and ac- 
tually accomplished on foot. The remembrance of his romantic 
wanderings over Holland, France, Germany, and Italy, imparts 
a singular interest to his writings. It was, indeed, worthy of 
a true poet that, enamored of nature and delighting in the ob- 
servation of his species, he should thus manfully go forth, with 
no companion but his flute, and wander over these fair lands 
hallowed by past associations and existent beauty. A rich and 
happy era, despite its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, 
was that year of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must 
have been the imaginative pedestrian, as he reposed his weary 
frame in the peasant's cottage " beside the murmuring Loire ;" 
and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of 
Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills, hailed 
the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of Florence — 
the long-anticipated goals to which his weary footsteps had so 
patiently tended. If anything could enhance the pleasure of 
musing amid these scenes of poetic interest, it must have been 
the consciousness of having reached them by so gradual and 
self-denying a progress. There is, in truth, no more charac- 
teristic portion of Goldsmith's biography, than that which 



XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

records this remarkable tour ; and there are few more striking 
instances of the available worth of talent. Unlike the bards 
of old, he won not his way to shelter and hospitality by appeal- 
ing to national feeling ; for the lands through which he roamed 
were not his own, and the lay of the last minstrel had long 
since died away in oblivion. But he gained the ready kind- 
ness of the peasantry by playing the flute, as they danced in 
the intervals of toil ; and won the favor of the learned by suc- 
cessful disputation at the convents and universities — a method 
of rewarding talent which was extensively practised in Europe 
at that period. Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving 
poet rambled over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vi- 
cissitudes incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world, 
to a mind like his, there was ample compensation in the supe- 
rior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He mingled 
frankly with the people, and saw things as they were. The 
scenery which environed him flitted not before his senses, like 
the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became familiar to his 
eye under the changing aspects of time and season. Manners 
and customs he quietly studied, with the advantage of sufficient 
opportunity to institute just comparisons and draw fair infer- 
ences. In short, Goldsmith was no tyro in the philosophy of 
travel ; and, although the course he pursued was dictated by 
necessity, its superior results are abundantly evidenced through- 
out his works. We have, indeed, no formal narrative of his 
journeyings ; but what is better, there is scarcely a page thrown 
off, to supply the pressing wants of the moment, which is not 
enriched by some pleasing reminiscence or sensible thought, 
garnered from the recollection and scenes of that long pilgrim- 
age. Nor did he fail to embody the prominent impressions of 
so interesting an epoch of his checkered life, in a more en- 



GOLDSMITH. XV11 

during and beautiful form. The poem of " The Traveller," 
originally sketched in Switzerland, was subsequently revised 
and extended. It was .the foundation of Goldsmith's poetical 
fame. The subject evinces the taste of the author. The un- 
pretending vein of enthusiasm which runs through it, is only 
equalled by the force and simplicity of the style. The rapid 
sketches of the several countries it presents, are vigorous and 
pleasing ; and the reflections interspersed, abound with that 
truly humane spirit, and that deep sympathy with the good, 
the beautiful, and the true, which distinguishes the poet. This 
production may be regarded as the author's first deliberate at- 
tempt in the career of genius. It went through nine editions 
during his life, and its success contributed, in a great measure, 
to encourage and Sustain him in future and less genial efforts. 
The faults which are said to have deformed the character 
of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles rather 
than absolute and positive errors. Recent biographers agree 
in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to play has either 
been grossly exaggerated, or was but a temporary mania ; and 
we should infer from his own allusion to the subject, that he had, 
with the flexibility of disposition that belonged to him, yielded 
only so far to its seductions as to learn from experience the 
supreme folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, that 
his means were too restricted, and his time, while in London, 
too much occupied, to allow of his enacting the part of a reg- 
ular and professed gamester ; and during the latter and most 
busy years of his life, we have the testimony of the members 
of the celebrated club to which he was attached, to the tem- 
perance and industry of his habits. Another, and in the eyes 
of the world, perhaps, greater weakness recorded of him, was 
a mawkish vanity, sometimes accompanied by jealousy of 
b* 



X\m INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

more si-coessful competitors for the honors of literature. Some 
anecdotes, illustrative of this unamiable trait, are preserved, 
which would amuse us, were they associated with less noble 
endowments or a more uninteresting character. As it is, how- 
ever, not a few of them challenge credulity, from their utter 
want of harmony with certain dispositions which he is uni- 
versally allowed to have possessed. But it is one of the 
greatest and most common errors in judging of character, to 
take an isolated and partial, instead of a broad and compre- 
hensive view of the various qualities which go to form the 
man, and the peculiar circumstances that have influenced 
their development. Upon a candid retrospect of Goldsmith's 
life, it appears to us that the display of vanity, which in the 
view of many are so demeaning, may be easily and satis- 
factorily explained. Few men possess talent of any kind un- 
consciously. It seems designed by the Creator, that the very 
sense of capacity should urge genius to fulfil its mission, and 
support its early and lonely efforts by the earnest conviction 
of ultimate success. To beings thus endowed, the neglect 
and contumely of the world — the want of sympathy — the 
feeling of misappreciation, is often a keen sorrow felt pre- 
cisely in proportion to the susceptibility of the individual, and 
expressed according as he is ingenuous and frank. 

In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary struggle 
with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-success in 
every scheme for support, coupled as they were with an in- 
tuitive and deep consciousness of mental power and poetic 
gifts, were calculated to render him painfully alive to the su- 
perior consideration bestowed upon less deserving but more 
presumptuous men, and the unmerited and unjust disregard 
to his own claims. Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to give 



GOLDSMITH. XIX 

vent so childishly to such feelings, but this sprung from the 
spontaneous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands have 
felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of men, 
" he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, this free- 
spoken and candid disposition was inimical to his success in 
more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker, unable 
to play the great man, and instinctively preferring the spon- 
taneous to the formal, and "thinking aloud" to studied and 
circumspect speech. The " exquisite sensibility to contempt," 
too, which he confesses belonged to him, frequently induced 
an appearance of conceit, when no undue share existed. The 
truth is, the legitimate pride of talent, for want of free and 
natural scope, often exhibited itself in Goldsmith greatly to 
his disadvantage. The fault was rather in his destiny than 
himself. He ran away from college with the design of em- 
barking for America, because he was reproved by an unfeel- 
ing tutor before a convivial party of his friends ; and descended 
to a personal rencontre with a printer, who impudently de- 
livered Dodsley's refusal that he should undertake an im- 
proved edition of Pope. He concealed his name when ne- 
cessity obliged Mm to apply for the office of Usher; and 
received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee-house, rather 
than expose the poorness of his lodgings. He joined the 
crowd to hear his own ballads sung when a student; and 
openly expressed his wonder at the stupidity of people, in 
preferring the tricks of a mountebank to the society of a 
man like himself. While we smile at, we cannot wholly de- 
ride such foibles, and are constrained to say of Goldsmith as 
he said of the Village Pastor — 

" And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 



XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our poet 
arose more from that recklessness of the future, characteristic 
of the Irish temperament, or the singular confidence in des- 
tiny which is so common a trait in men of ideal tendencies. 
It would naturally be supposed, that the stern lesson of severe 
experience would have eventually corrected this want of fore- 
sight. It was but the thoughtlessness of youth which lured 
him to forget amid the convivialities of a party, the vessel on 
board which he had taken passage and embarked his effects, 
on his first experiment in travelling ; but later in life, we find 
him wandering out on the first evening of his arrival in Edin- 
burgh, without noting the street or number of his lodgings ; 
inviting a party of strangers in a public garden to take tea 
with him, without a sixpence in his pocket ; and obstinately 
persisting, during his last illness, in taking a favorite medi- 
cine, notwithstanding it aggravated his disease. A life of 
greater vicissitude it would be difficult to find in the annals 
of literature. Butler and Otway were, indeed, victims of in- 
digence, and often perhaps, found themselves, like our bard, 
" in a garret writing for bread, and expecting every moment 
to be dunned for a milk-score," but the biography of Gold- 
smith displays a greater variety of shifts resorted to for sub- 
sistence. He was successively an itinerant musician, a half- 
starved usher, a chemist's apprentice, private tutor, law-student, 
practising physician, eager disputant, hack-writer, and even, 
for a week or two, one of a company of strolling players. In 
the History of George Primrose, he is supposed to have de- 
scribed much of his personal experience prior to the period 
when he became a professed litterateur. We cannot but 
respect the independent spirit he maintained through all these 



GOLDSMITH. XXI 

struggles with adverse fortune. Notwithstanding his poverty, 
the attempt to chain his talents to the service of a political 
faction by mercenary motives was indignantly spurned, and 
when his good genius proved triumphant, he preferred to in- 
- scribe its first acknowledged offspring to his brother, than, 
according to the servile habits of the day, dedicate it to any 
aristocratic patron, " that thrift might follow fawning." With 
all his incapacity for assuming dignity, Goldsmith never seems 
to have forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's 
nobility. 

The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith in 
such various and distinct species of literary effort, is worthy 
of remark. As an essayist he has contributed some of the 
most pure and graceful specimens of English prose discover- 
able in the whole range of literature. His best comedy con- 
tinues to maintain much of its original popularity, notwith- 
standing the revolutions which public taste has undergone 
since it was first produced ; and " The Hermit " is still an 
acknowledged model in ballad-writing. If from his more 
finished works, we turn to those which were thrown off under 
the pressing exigencies of his life, it is astonishing what a 
contrast of subjects employed his pen. During his college 
days, he was constantly writing ballads on popular events, 
which he disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, 
after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him 
sedulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compila- 
tions, translations, and reviews for the booksellers ; one day 
throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-lane Ghost, and the 
next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau Nash ; at one 
moment, busy upon a festive song, and at another deep in 
composing the words of an Oratorio. It is curious, with the 



XX11 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

intense sentiment and finished pictures of fashionable life 
with which the fictions of our day abound, fresh in the mem- 
ory, to open the Vicar of Wakefield. We seem to be read- 
ing the memoirs of an earlier era, instead of a different sphere 
of life. There are no wild and improbable incidents, no 
startling views, and with the exception of BurchelFs incogni- 
to, no attempt to excite interest through the attraction of 
mystery. And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive 
and permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for intro- 
ducing students on the continent to a knowledge of our 
language, and although popular taste at present demands quite 
a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is 
often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast it pre- 
sents to the reigning school ; while the attractive picture it 
affords of rural life and humble virtue, will ever render it 
intrinsically dear and valuable. 

But the " Deserted Village " is, of all Goldsmith's produc- 
tions, unquestionably the favorite. It carries back the mind 
to the early seasons of life, and re-asserts the power of un- 
sophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems grow stale, 
this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart and sacred to 
the imagination, are those sweet delineations of unperverted 
existence. There is true pathos in that tender lament over 
the superseded sports and ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment, 
which never fails to find a response in every feeling breast. 
It is an elaborate and touching epitaph, written in the ceme- 
tery of the world, over what is dear to all humanity. There 
is a truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and 
natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain 
over the heart immersed in the toil and crowds of cities. 
There is an unborn beauty in the similes of the bird and her 



GOLDSMITH. XX111 

" unfledged offspring," the hare that " pants to the place from 
whence at first he flew," and the " tall cliff that lifts its awful 
form," which, despite their familiarity, retain their power to 
delight. And no clear and susceptible mind can ever lose 
its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated and heart-stirring 
numbers, which animate with pleasure the pulses of youth, 
gratify the mature taste of manhood, and fall with soothing 
sweetness upon the ear of age. 

We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young lady 
who had been accustomed to say, that our poet was the home- 
liest of men, after reading the " Deserted Village " — "I shall 
never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly ! " This poem passed 
through five editions in as many months, and from its domes- 
tic character became immediately popular throughout England. 
Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a measure, to be 
ascribed to its author's musical taste, and the fascinating ease 
of its flow is the result of long study and careful revision. 
Nothing is more deceitful than the apparent facility observa- 
ble in poetry. No poet exhibits more of this characteristic 
than Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts are filled with erasures 
and repetitions. Few things appear more negligently grace- 
ful than the well-arranged drapery of a statue, yet how many 
experiments must the artist try before the desired effect is 
produced. So thoroughly did the author revise the " Desert- 
ed Village," that not a single original line remained. The 
clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as indica- 
tive of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his character or 
the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said of Pitt's 
elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one with the 
idea that the man was greater than the orator. A similar 



XXIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

influence it seems to me is produced by the harmonious ver- 
sification and elegant diction of Goldsmith. 

It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of the 
intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can arrive at 
a complete view of his genius. It is to the feelings that we 
must look for that earnestness which gives vigor to mental 
efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar tone and coloring. 
And it will generally be found that what is really and per- 
manently attractive in the works of genius, independent of 
mere diction, is to be traced rather to the heart than the head. 
We may admire the original conception, the lofty imagery or 
winning style of a popular author, but what touches us most 
deeply is the sentiment of which these are the vehicles. The 
fertile invention of Petrarch, in displaying under such a 
variety of disguises the same favorite subject, is not so 
moving as the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy 
and quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. Hemans is 
more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to the 
elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less attrac- 
tive for his kindly affections than for his quaint humor. Not 
a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith, is attributable to 
the excellence of his heart. Mere talent would scarcely have 
sufficed to interpret and display so enchantingly the humble 
characters and scenes to which his most brilliant efforts were 
devoted. It was his sincere and ready sympathy with man, 
his sensibility to suffering in every form, his strong social sen- 
timent and his amiable interest in all around, which brighten- 
ed to his mind's eye, what to the less susceptible is unheeded 
and obscure. Naturally endowed with free and keen sensi- 
bilities, his own experience of privation prevented them from 



GOLDSMITH. XXV 

indurating through age or prosperity. He cherished through- 
out his life an earnest faith in the better feelings of our 
nature. He realized the universal beauty and power of Love ; 
and neither the solitary pursuits of literature, the elation of 
success, nor the blandishments of pleasure or society, ever 
banished from his bosom the generous and kindly sentiments 
which adorned his character. He was not the mere creature 
of attainment, the reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. 
Pride of intellect usurped not Ids heart. Pedantry congeal- 
ed not the fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise 
of all those tender and noble sentiments which are so much 
more honorable to man than the highest triumphs of mind. 
And it is these which make us love the man not less than 
admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympathy with the 
sufferings of the peasantry, is eloquently expressed in both 
his poems and frequently in his prose writings. How expres- 
sive that lament for the destruction of the ' Ale-House ' — 

that it would 

' No more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.' 

There is more true benevolence in the feeling which 
prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calculating 
philosophy with which so many expect to elevate the lower 
classes in these days of ultra-reform. When shall we learn 
that we must sympathize with those we would improve ? At 
college, we are told, one bitter night Goldsmith encountered 
a poor woman and her infants shivering at the gate, and 
having no money to give them, bringing out all his bed-clothes, > 
and to keep himself from freezing, cut open his bed and slept 
within it When hard at work earning a scanty pittance in 
his garret, he spent every spare penny in cakes for the chil- 
c 



XXVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

dren of his poorer neighbors, and when he could do nothing 
else, taught them dancing by way of cheering their poverty. 
Notwithstanding his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he visited and 
relieved him in prison ; and when returning home with the 
100Z. received from his bookseller for the ' Deserted Village, 
upon being told by an acquaintance he fell in with, that it 
was a great price for so little a thing, replied, ' Perhaps it is 
more than he can afford,' and returning, offered to refund a 
part. To his poor countrymen he was a constant benefactor, 
and while he had a shilling was ready to share it with them, 
so that they familiarly styled him ' our doctor.' In Leyden, 
when on the point of commencing his tour, he stripped him- 
self of all his funds to send a collection of flower-roots to an 
uncle who was devoted to botany ; and on the first occasion 
that patronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, to 
bespeak a vacant living for his brother. In truth, his life 
abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one day of 
his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of his bringing 
home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens to be his amanu- 
ensis, and again of his leaving the card-table to relieve a 
poor woman, whose tones as she chanted some ditty in pass- 
ing, came to him above the hum of gaiety and indicated to his 
ear distress. Though the frequent and undeserved subject 
of literary abuse, he was never known to write severely 
against any one. 

His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue 
and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his pen. 
He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in Nature 
of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the noblest and 
most universal attributes of man. ' If I were to love you by 
rule,' he writes to his brother, ' I dare say I never could do it 



GOLDSMITH. XXV11 

sincerely/ There was in his nature, an instinctive aversion 
to the frigid ceremonial and meaningless professions which so 
coldly imitate the language of feeling. Goldsmith saw enough 
of the world, to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of 
custom which ' makes dotards of us all.' He did not wander 
among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fire-side, nor mix in 
the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain. Travel liberalized 
his views and demolished the barriers of local prejudice. He 
looked around upon his kind with the charitable judgment 
and interest born of an observing mind and a kindly heart — 
with an infinite love, an infinite pity.' He delighted in the de- 
lineation of humble life, because he knew it to be the most 
unperverted. Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because 
he had learned 1;heir preeminent truth. Childhood with its 
innocent playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored 
wisdom, and the uncultivated but ' bold peasantry,' interested 
him alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his 
fellow-lodger — the watchmaker in Green Arbor Court — not 
less than a literary discussion with Dr. Johnson. ' I must own,' 
he writes, ' I should prefer the title of the ancient philoso- 
pher, namely, a Citizen of the World — to that of an English- 
man, a Frenchman, an European, or that of any appellation 
whatever.' And this title he has nobly earned, by the wide 
scope of his sympathies and the beautiful pictures of life and 
nature universally recognized and universally loved, which 
have spread his name over the world. Pilgrims to the sup- 
posed scene of the Deserted Village have long since carried 
away every vestige of the hawthorn at Lissoy, but the laurels 
of Goldsmith will never be garnered by the hand of time, or 
blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are minds to 
appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household lore of 
English literature. 



MEMOIRS 

OP 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 

BY DR. AIKIN. 



It cannot be said of this ornament of British literature, 
as has been observed of most authors, that the memoirs of his 
life comprise little more than a history of his writings. Gold- 
smith's life was full of adventure ; and a due consideration 
of his conduct, from the outset to his death, will furnish many 
useful lessons to those who live after him. 

Our Author, the third son of Mr. Charles Goldsmith, was 
born at Elphin, in the county of Roscommon, Ireland, on the 
29th of November, 1728. His father, who had been educated 
at Dublin College, was a clergyman of the established church, 
and had married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, 
master of the diocesan school of Elphin. Her mother's 
brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, then rector of Kilkenny West, 
lent the young couple the house in which our author was 
born ; and at his death Mr. Green was succeeded in his bene- 
fice by his clerical protegee. 

Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two daughters. 

Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of ' The Travel- 
ler' is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly both at school 



8 AIKINS MEMOIRS OF 

and at college ; but his marriage at nineteen years of age 
appears to have been a bar to his preferment in the church ; 
and we believe that he never ascended above a curacy. 

The liberal education which the father bestowed upon 
Henry had deducted so much from a narrow income that, 
when Oliver was born, after an interval of seven years from 
the birth of the former child, no prospect in life appeared for 
him, but a mechanical or mercantile occupation. 

The rudiments of instruction he acquired from a school- 
master in the village, who had served in Queen Anne's wars 
as a quarter-master in that detachment of the army which 
was sent to Spain. Being of a communicative turn, and find- 
ing a ready hearer in young Oliver, this man used frequent- 
ly to entertain him with what he called his adventures ; nor 
is it without probability supposed, that these laid the founda- 
tion of that wandering disposition which became afterwards so 
conspicuous in his pupil. 

At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indications of 
genius ; for, when only seven or eight years old, he would 
often amuse his father and mother with poetical attempts, 
which attracted much notice from them and their friends ; 
but his infant mind does not appear to have been much elat- 
ed by their approbation ; for after his verses had been admir- 
ed, they were, without regret, committed by him to the 
flames. 

He was now taken from the tuition of the quondam soldier, 
to be put under that of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of 
Elphin ; and was at the same time received into the house of 
his father's brother, John Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter, 
near that town. 

Our author's eldest sister, Catharine, (afterwards married 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 9 

to Daniel Hodson, Esq., of Lishoy, near Ballymahon,) relates 7 
that one evening, when Oliver was about nine years of age, 
a company of young people of both sexes being assembled at 
his uncle's, the boy was required to dance a hornpipe, a youth 
undertaking to play to him on the fiddle. Being but lately 
out of the small-pox, which had much disfigured his counte- 
nance, and his bodily proportions being short and thick, the 
young musician thought to show his wit by comparing our he- 
ro to iEsop dancing ; and having harped a little too long, as 
the caperer thought, on this bright idea, the latter suddenly 
stopped, and said, 

Our herald hath proclaim' d this saying, 
' See jiEsop dancing,' — and his Monkey playing. 

This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his fortune ; 
for, from that time, it was determined to send him to the uni- 
versity ; and some of his relations, who were in the church, 
offered to contribute towards the expense, particularly the 
Eev. Thomas Contarine, rector of Kilmore, near Carrick-up- 
on-Shannon, who had married an aunt of Oliver's. The Eev. 
Mr. Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liberally 
assisted in this friendly design. 

To further the purpose intended, he was now removed to 
Athlone, where he continued about two years under the Eev. 
Mr. Campbell ; who being then obliged by ill-health to resign 
the charge, Oliver was sent to the school of the Eev. Patrick 
Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford.* 

* We are told, that in his last journey to this school, he had an ad- 
venture, which is thought to have suggested the plot of his comedy 
of ' She stoops to conquer.' — Some friend had given him a guinea; 
and in his way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles 



10 aikin's memoirs of 

Under this gentleman lie was prepared for the university ; 
and on the 11th of June, 1744, was admitted a Sizer of Trin- 
ity college, Dublin,* under the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wilder, 
one of the Fellows, who was a man of harsh temper and vio- 
lent passions ; and Oliver being of a thoughtless and gay turn, 
it cannot be surprising that they should soon be dissatisfied 
with each other. 

Oliver, it seems, had one day imprudently invited a party 
of both sexes to a supper and ball in his rooms ; which com- 
ing to the ears of his tutor, the latter entered the place in the 
midst of their jollity, abused the whole company, and inflicted 
manual correction on Goldsmith in their presence. 

This mortification had such an effect on the mind of Oliver, 
that he resolved to seek his fortune in some place where he 
should be unknown : accordingly he sold his books and clothes, 
and quitted the university ; but loitered about the streets, 

from his father's house, he had amused himself the whole day with 
viewing the gentlemen's seats on the road; and at nightfall found 
himself in the small town of Ardagh. Here he inquired for the best 
house in the place, meaning the best inn ; but his informant, taking 
the question in its literal sense, shewed him to the house of a private 
gentleman ; where, calling for somebody to take his horse to the sta- 
ble, our hero alighted, and was shown into the parlor, being suppos- 
ed to have come on a visit to the master, whom he found sitting by 
the fire. This gentleman soon discovered Oliver's mistake; but be- 
ing a man of humor, and learning from him the name of his father, 
(whom he knew), he favored the deception. Oliver ordered a -good 
supper, and invited his landlord and landlady, with their daughters, 
to partake of it ; he treated them with a bottle or two of wine, and, 
at going to bed, ordered a hot cake to be prepared for his breakfast : 
nor was it till he was about to depart, and called for his bill, that he 
discovered his mistake. 

=& The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a collegian 
there. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 11 

considering of a destination, till his money was exhausted. 
With a solitary shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin ; 
by abstinence he made this sum last him three days, and then 
was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes off his back : 
in short, to such an extremity was he reduced, as to find a 
handful of gray-peas, given him by a girl at a wake, the most 
comfortable repast that he had ever made. 

After numberless adventures in this vagrant state, he found 
his way home, and was replaced under his morose and mer- 
ciless tutor ; by whom he was again exposed to so many mor- 
tifications, as induced an habitual despondence of mind, and 
a total carelessness about his studies ; the consequence of 
which was, that he neither obtained a scholarship, nor became 
a candidate for the premiums. On the 25th of May, 1747, 
he received a public admonition, for having assisted other col- 
legians in a riot occasioned by a scholar having been arrested, 
quod seditioni favisset, et tumultuantibus opem tulisset : in this 
case, however, he appears to have fared better than some of 
his companions, who were expelled the university. On the 
15th of June following he was elected one of the exhibition- 
ers on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth ; but was not admit- 
ted to the degree of Bachelor of Arts till February, 1749, 
which was two years after the usual period. 

Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine under- 
took to supply his place, and wished him to prepare for holy 
orders. This proposal not meeting with the young man's in- 
clination, Mr. Contarine next resolved on sending him to Lon- 
don, that he might study law in the temple. Whilst at Dub- 
lin, however, on his way to England, he fell in with a sharp- 
er, who cheated him at play of 50Z., which had been provid- 
ed for his carriage, etc. He returned, and received his un- 



12 aikin's memoirs of 

cle's forgiveness : it was now finally settled that he should 
make physic his profession ; and he departed for Edinburgh, 
where he settled about the latter end of the year 1752. Here 
he attended the lectures of Dr. Monroe and the other medical 
professors ; but his studies were by no means regular ; and 
an indulgence in dissipated company, with a ready hand to 
administer to the necessities of whoever asked him, kept him 
always poor. 

Having, however, gone through the usual courses of phys- 
ic and anatomy in the Scottish university, Goldsmith was 
about to remove to Leyden to complete his studies ; and his 
departure was hastened by a debt to Mr. Barclay, a tailor in 
Edinburgh, which he had imprudently made his own by be- 
coming security for a fellow student who, either from want of 
principle or of means, had failed to pay it : for this debt he 
was arrested ; but was released by the kindness of Dr. Sleigh 
and Mr. Laughlin Maclaine, whose friendship he had acquir- 
ed at the college. 

He now embarked for Bourdeaux, on board a Scotch ves- 
sel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall, master. The 
ship made a tolerable appearance ; and, as another induce- 
ment to our hero, he was informed that six agreeable passen- 
gers were to be his company. They had been but two days 
at sea, however, when a storm drove them into Newcastle-up- 
on-Tyne^ and the passengers went ashore to refresh after the 
fatigue of their voyage. ' Seven men and I, (says Goldsmith) 
were on shore the following evening ; but as we were all very 
merry, the room door burst open, and there entered a sergeant 
and twelve grenadiers, with their bayonets screwed, who put 
us all under the King's arrest. It seems, my company were 
Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 

to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeavored all I could to 
prove my innocence ; however, I remained in prison with the 
rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. But 
hear how Providence interposed in my favor : the ship, which 
had set sail for Bourdeaux before I got from prison, was 
wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the 
crew drowned/ — Fortunately, there was a ship now ready at 
Newcastle, for Holland, on board of which he embarked, and 
in nine days reached Rotterdam ; whence he travelled by 
land to Leyden. 

Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy under 
Albinus, and chemistry under Gambius ; but here, as former- 
ly, his little property was destroyed by play and dissipation ; 
and he is actually believed to have set out on his travels with 
only one clean shirt, and not a guilder in his purse, trusting 
wholly to Providence for a subsistence. 

It is generally understood, that in the history of his Philo- 
sophic Vagabond, (Vicar of Wakefield, chap, xx.) he has re- 
lated many of his own adventures ; and that when on his pe- 
destrian tour through Flanders and France, as he had some 
knowledge of music, he turned what had formerly been his 
amusement into a present means of subsistence. ' I passed, 
(says he) among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among 
such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry ; 
for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. 
Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, 
I played on my German flute one of my most merry tunes, 
and that procured me not only .a lodging, but subsistence for 
the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people 
of fashion ; but they always thought my performance odious, 
and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me 
2 



14 aikin's memoirs of 

the more extraordinary ; as whenever I used in better days 
to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my 
music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies 
especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was received 
with contempt : a proof how ready the world is to underrate 
those talents by which a man is supported I ' At the differ- 
ent monasteries in his tour, especially those of his own nar 
tion, his learning generally procured him temporary enter- 
tainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzerland, in which 
country he first cultivated his poetical talents with any par- 
ticular effect ; for here we find he wrote about two hundred 
lines of his ' Traveller.' 

The story which has commonly been told, of his having 
acted as travelling tutor to a young miser, is now thought to 
have been too hastily adopted from the aforesaid History of a 
Philosophic Vagabond, and never to have been the real situ- 
ation of the author of that history. From Switzerland, Gold- 
smith proceeded to Padua, where he stayed six months, and 
is by some supposed to have taken there his degree of Bache- 
lor of Physic \ though others are of opinion,, that if ever he 
really took any medical degree abroad, it was at Louvairi.* 

After visiting all the northern part of Italy,, he travelled, 
still on foot, through France ; and, embarking at Calais, land- 
ed at Dover in the summer of 1756, unknown, as he suppos- 
ed, to a single individual, and with not a guinea in his pock- 
et. 

His first endeavors were, to procure employment as an ush- 
er in some school ; but the want of a recommendation as to 
character and ability rendered his efforts for some time fruit- 

* In 1769, it is certain, he was admitted M. B. at Oxford, which 
university he visited in February, in company with Dr. Johnson. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15 

less ; and how he subsisted is not easy to guess. At length, 
however, it appears he procured an usher's place ; but in 
what part the school was situated, or how long he continued 
in it, we do not learn ; though we may form some idea of 
the uncongeniality of the place to his mind, from the follow- 
ing passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I have been an 
usher at a boarding-school ; and may I die but I would rath- 
er be an under-tumkey in Newgate. I was up early and 
late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face 
by my mistress, worried by the boys within, and never per- 
mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad..' 

When in a fit of disgust he had quitted this academy, his 
pecuniary necessities soon became pressing ; to relieve which 
he applied to several apothecaries and chemists for employ- 
ment as a journeyman ; but here his threadbare appearance, 
awkward manners, and the want of a recommendation, ope- 
rated sorely to his prejudice ;* till at last a chemist near Fish-' 
street-hill, probably moved by compassion, gave him employ- 
ment in his laboratory, where he continued till he learned 
that his old friend Dr. Sleigh, of Edinburgh, was in town : on 
him (who had, as we have seen, formerly relieved' him from 
embarrassment,) Goldsmith waited, was kindly received, and 
invited to share his purse during his continuance in London. 

This timely assistance enabled our author to commence 
medical practice at Bankside, in Southwark, whence he after- 

* In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus:—' At London, you 
may easily imagine what difficulties I had to encounter; without 
friends, recommendations, money or impudence; and that in a coun- 
try where being born an Irishman was sufficient to keep me unem- 
ployed. Many in such circumstances would have had recourse to 
the friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But with all my follies I had 
principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the other. 



16 aikin's memoirs of 

ward removed to the neighborhood of the Temple ; his suc- 
cess as a physician is not known, but his income was very 
small ; for, as he used to say, he got very few fees, though 
he had abundance of patients. Some addition, however, he 
now began to derive from the efforts of Ms pen ; and it ap- 
pears that he was for awhile with the celebrated Samuel Rich- 
ardson as corrector of the press- 
About this time he renewed his acquaintance with one of 
the young physicians whom he had known at Edinburgh. 
This was a son of the Rev. Dr. John Milner, a dissenting 
minister, who kept a classical school of eminence at Peckham, 
in Surrey. Mr. Milner, observing Goldsmiths uncertain 
mode of living, invited him to take the charge of his father's 
school, the Doctor being then confined by illness : to this he 
consented ; and Dr. Milner, in return, promised to exert his 
interest with the India Directors to procure for him some med- 
ical establishment in the Company's service. This promise 
he faithfully performed, and Goldsmith was actually appoint- 
ed physician to one of the factories in India in 1758. It ap- 
pears, however, that our author never availed himself of this 
post,* but continued in Dr. Milner's academy ; and in this 
very year sold to Mr. Edward Dilly, for twenty guineas, l The 
Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France 
for his Religion. Written by Himself. Translated from the 
Original, just published at the Hague, by James WiUington.' 
2 vols. 12mo. 

Towards the latter end of 1758, Goldsmith happened to 

* Though, it is certain, that, in contemplation of going to India, he 
circulated Proposals to print by Subscription ' An essay on the Pres- 
ent State of Taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defray- 
ing the expenses of his fitting out for the voyage. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 17 

dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, the pro- 
prietor of The Monthly Review, who invited him to write ar- 
ticles of criticism for that respectable publication, on the terms 
of a liberal salary, besides board and. lodging. By a written 
agreement this engagement was to last for a year ; but at the 
end of seven or eight months it was dissolved by mutual con- 
sent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment in Green- Ar- 
bor-court, Little Old Bailey.* In this wretched hovel our 
a\ithor completed his ' Inquiry into the Present State of Po- 
lite Literature in Europe,' which was published in 1759, by 
Dodsley, and was well received. In October of the same 
year he began i The Bee,' a weekly publication, which termi- 
nated at the eighth number. About this time, also, he con- 
tributed some articles to The Critical Review, one of which 
(we believe a review of 'Ovid's Epistles translated into Eng- 
lish verse, by a Mr. Barrett, Master of the Grammar School 
at Ashford, in Kent,) introduced him to the acquaintance of 
Dr. Smollett, who was then editor of The British Magazine ; 
and for that work Goldsmith wrote most of those ' Essays,' 
which were afterwards collected and published in a separate 
volume. By Dr. Smollett too he was recommended to some 
respectable booksellers, particularly to Mr. John Newbery, 
who well deserved the eulogium bestowed by Warburton on 
the trade in general, as one of ' the best judges and most lib- 
eral rewarders of literary merit.' By Mr. ISTewbery, Gold- . 
smith was engaged at a salary of 100/. a-year, to write for 
The Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. These he 
called ' Chinese Letters ; ' and they were afterwards collect- 
ed in two volumes, under the title of ' The Citizen of the 

* An engraving of the house, illustrated by a description, was giv- 
en in ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii. pp. 7, 8. 

2* 



18 aikin's memoirs op 

World/ It was soon after this that he commenced his ac- 
quaintance with Dr. Johnson. 

The important engagement with Newbery for a hundred 
pounds a year, encouraged Goldsmith to descend Break-neck- 
steps,* and to hire a decent apartment ; in Wine-Office-court, 
Meet-street. Here he dropped the humble Mister, and dub- 
bed himself Doctor Goldsmith. Here also he put the finish- 
ing hand to his excellent novel, called ' The Vicar of Wake- 
field,' but was, when he had clone, extremely embarrassed in 
his circumstances, dunned by his landlady for arrears of rent, 
and not daring to stir abroad for fear of arrest : in fact, she 
herself at length had him arrested ; he then summoned reso- 
lution to send a message to Dr. Johnson ; stating that he was 
in great distress, and begging that he would come to him as 
soon as possible. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to 
follow almost immediately. When he arrived, he found Gold- 
smith in a violent passion with the woman of the house, but 
consoling himself as well as he could with a bottle of Madeira, 
which he had already purchased with part of the guinea. 
Johnson, corking the bottle, desired Goldsmith would be calm, 
and consider in what way he could extricate himself. The 
latter then produced his novel as ready for the press. The 
Doctor looked into it, saw its merit, and went away with it to 
Mr. Newbery, who gave him 60Z. for it ; with this sum he re- 
turned to Goldsmith, who, with many invectives, paid his 
landlady her rent. Newbery, however, seems not to have 
been very sanguine in his hopes of this novel ; for he kept 
the MS. by him near three years unprinted : his ready pur- 
chase of it, probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its 

* A steep flight of stairs (commonly so termed) leading from the 
door of his lodging-house in Green- Arbor-court to Fleet-market. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 19 

distressed author, rather than under any idea of profit by the 
publication. 

Early in the year 1763, Goldsmith removed to lodgings at 
Canonbury-house, Islington, where he compiled several works 
for Mr. Newbery ; among which were, ' The Art of Poetry,' 
2 vols. 12mo. ; a ' Life of Nash ; ' and a ' History of England, 
in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son.' This 
latter book was for a long time attributed to George Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In the following year he took chambers on the upper story 
of the Library stair-case in the Inner Temple, and began to 
live in a genteel style. Still, however, he was little known, 
except among the booksellers, till the year 1765, when he 
produced his poem called ' The Traveller ; or, A Prospect 
of Society/ which had obtained high commendation from Dr. 
Johnson, who declared ' that there had not been so fine a po- 
em since the time of Pope ; ' yet such was Goldsmith's diffi- 
dence, that, though he had completed it some years before, he 
had not courage enough to publish, till urged to it by John- 
son's suggestions. . This poem heightened his literary charac- 
ter with the booksellers, and introduced him to several per- 
sons of superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (afterwards 
earl of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Nugent, 
Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr Topham Beauclerc, etc., and he 
was elected one of the first members of ' The Literary Club,' 
which had been just instituted by Johnson, Burke, and Sir 
Joshua, and met at the Turk's-head, Gerard-street, Soho, ev- 
ery Friday evening. 

His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which was also pub- 
lished in 1765, recommended him to the Countess (afterwards 
Duchess) of Northumberland, who was a generous patroness 



20 aikin's memoirs of 

of merit. In the following year his ' Vicar of Wakefield ' was 
printed, and universally read and admired. 

His reputation being now fairly established as a novelist, a 
poet, and a critic, Goldsmith turned his thoughts to the dra- 
ma, and set about his comedy called ' The Good-natured Man.' 
This he first offered to Garrick, who, after a long fluctuation 
between doubt and encouragement, at length declined bring- 
ing it forward at Drury-lane theatre ; it was therefore taken 
to Covent-garden, accepted by Mr. Colman, and presented 
for the first time on the 29th of January, 1768. It was act- 
ed nine times ; and by the profits of the author's three third- 
nights, with the sale of the copyright, a clear 500Z. was pro- 
duced. 

With this, and some money which he had reserved out of 
the produce of a ' Roman History,' in 2 vols. 8vo., and other 
works, he was enabled to descend from his attic story in the 
Inner Temple, and to purchase for 400Z., and furnish elegant- 
ly, a spacious set of chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, Brick- 
court, Middle Temple. 

On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 1769, Sir 
Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith to his Majesty for 
the Honorary Professorship of History, which was graciously 
conferred on him. In the following year he produced that 
highly-finished poem called ' The Deserted Village.' Previ- 
ous to its publication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Grif- 
fin, of Catharine street, Strand) had given him a note of a 
hundred guineas for the copy. This circumstance Goldsmith 
mentioned soon afterwards to a friend, who observed that it 
was a large sum for so small a performance. ' In truth,' re- 
plied Goldsmith, ' I think so too ; it is near five sliillings a 
couplet, which is much more than the honest man can afford, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 21 

and, indeed, more than any modern poetry is worth. I have 
not been easy since I received it ; I will, therefore, go back 
and return him his note ; ' which he actually did ; but the 
sale was so rapid, that the bookseller soon paid him the hun- 
dred guineas with proper acknowledgments for the generosi- 
ty of his conduct. 

Soon after the appearance of the Deserted Village, our 
author paid a tribute to the memory of Dr. Parnell, in a Life 
prefixed to a new edition of his ' Poems on several Occasions.' 
In the year 1771 he produced his ' History of England, from 
the earliest Times to the Death of George II.,' in 4 vols. 8vo. ; 
for which Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 500Z. 

The Earl of Lisburne, one day at a dinner of the Royal 
Academicians, lamented to Goldsmith that he should neglect 
the muses to compile histories, and write novels, instead of 
penning poetry with which he was sure to charm his readers. 
* My lord,' replied cur author, ' in courting the muses I should 
starve ; but by my other labors I eat, drink, wear good clothes, 
and enjoy the luxuries of life.' 

Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of the oth- 
er business of an author by profession ; such as penning Pref- 
aces and Introductions to the books of other writers ; some of 
these have been published among his prose works ; but, no 
doubt, many remain at this day unknown. 

His second dramatic effort, being a comedy called ' She 
Stoops to Conquer ; or, The Mistakes of a Night,' was first 
presented at Covent-garden theatre, March 15, 1773, and re- 
ceived with an applause fully adequate to the author's san- 
guine hopes, and contrary to the expectations of Mr. Colman, 
who had not consented to receive the piece but at the earnest 
and reiterated instances of many friends. What was called 



22 aikin's memoirs of 

sentimental comedy had at that time got an unaccountable hold * 
of the public taste ; Kelly was subserving this un-British pro- 
pensity by his ' False Delicacy,' etc., and Goldsmith's piece 
(which was designed by him to bring back the town to a rel- 
ish of humor) being certainly in the opposite extreme, and 
hardly anything else than a farce of five acts instead of two, 
Colman, and his actors from him, had predestined the play to 
condemnation : when, therefore, towards the conclusion of the 
first performance, the author expressed some apprehension 
lest one of the jokes put into the mouth of Tony Lumpkin 
should not be relished by the audience, the manager, who had 
been in fear through the whole piece, replied, ' D — n it, Doc- 
tor, don't be terrified at a squib ; why, we have been sitting 
these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder.' Goldsmith's 
pride was so hurt at this remark, that the friendship which 
had till then subsisted between him and Colman, was thence- 
forth annihilated. 

The piece had a great run, and its author cleared by the 
third-nights, and the sale of the copy, upwards of 8001. Dr. 
Johnson said of it, ' That he knew of no comedy for many 
years that had so much exhilarated an audience, that had an- 
swered so much the great end of comedy — the making an 
audience merry.' It certainly added much to the author's 
reputation, and is still, with his ' Good-natured Man,' on the 
list of acting plays ; but it brought on him the envy and ma- 
lignity of some of his contemporaries ; and in the London 
Packet of Wednesday, March 24, 1773, printed for T. Evans, 
in Paternoster-row, appeared the following scurrilous epistle, 
evidently designed to injure his third-night (being the ninth 
representation) : — 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 23 

' TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

4 Vous vuus noyez en vanite. 
' Sir. — The happy knack which you have learnt of puffing 
your own compositions, provokes me to come forth. You 
have not been the editor of newspapers and magazines, not to 
discover the trick of literary humbug. But the gauze is so 
thin, that the very foolish part of the world see through it, 
and discover the Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your 
poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. "Would 
man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for 
hours the great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque 
Oranhotan's figure in a pier-glass ? Was but the lovely H — k 
as much enamored, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in 
vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this same 
bard of Bedlam ring the changes in praise of Goldy ! But what 
has he to be either proud or vain of? The " Traveller " 
is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles ; principles diamet- 
rically opposite to liberty. What is " The Good-natured 
Man," but a poor, water-gruel, dramatic dose ? What is " The 
Deserted Village," but a, pretty poem of easy numbers, with- 
out fancy, dignity, genius, or fire ? And pray what may be 
the last speaking pantomime,* so praised by the Doctor him- 
self, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the figure of a woman 
with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue ? We are 
made to laugh at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleas- 
antry for wit, and grimace for humor : wherein every scene 
is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of na- 
ture, and of the drama ; viz. Two gentlemen come to a man 
of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, etc., and take it for an 

* Meaning ' She Stoops to Conquer.' 



24 aikin's memoirs of 

inn. The one is intended as a lover to the daughter ; he 
talks with her for some hours, and when he sees her again in 
a different dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she 
squinted. He abuses the master of the house, and threatens 
to kick him out of his own doors. The 'Squire, whom we 
are told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible being 
of the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by bidding his 
mother lie close behind a bush, persuading her that his father, 
her own husband, is a highwayman, and that he is come to 
cut their throats ; and to give his cousin an opportunity to go 
off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and through 
ponds. There is not, sweet, sucking Johnson, a natural stroke 
in the whole play, but the young fellow's giving the stolen 
jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That 
Mr. Colman did no justice to this piece, I honestly allow ; 
that he told all his friends it would be damned, I positively 
aver ; and from such ungenerous insinuations, without a dra- 
matic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is now the ton to 
go to see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it 
or approved it, any more than the absurd plot of the Home's 
tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Goldsmith, correct your arrogance, 
reduce your vanity, and endeavor to believe, as a man, you 
are of the plainest sort ; and as an author, but a mortal piece 
of mediocrity.' 

4 Brisez le miroir injidele, 
Qui vous cache la verite. 

' Tom Tickle.' 

By one of those ' d d good-natured friends,' who are 

described by Sir Fretful Plagiary, the newspaper containing 
the foregoing offensive letter was eagerly brought to Goldsmith, 
who otherwise, perhaps, had never seen or heard of it. Our 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 25 

hero went to the shop brimfull of ire, and finding Evans behind 
his counter, thus addressed him : ' You have published a thing 
in your paper (my name is Goldsmith) reflecting upon a 
young lady. As for myself, I do not mind it.' — Evans at 
this moment stooped down, intending probably to look for a 
paper, that he might see what the enraged author meant ; 
when Goldsmith, observing his back to present a fair mark 
for his cane, laid it on lustily. The bibliopolist, however, soon 
defended himself, and a scuffle ensued, in which our author 
got his full share of blows. Dr. Kenrick, who was sitting in 
Evans's counting-house, (and who was strongly suspected to 
have been the writer of the letter), now came forward, part- 
ed the combatants, and sent Goldsmith home in a coach, 
grievously bruised. 

This attack ujDon a man, in his own house, furnished mat- 
ter of discussion for some days to the newspapers ; and an 
action at law was threatened to be brought for the assault ; 
but by the interposition of friends the affair was compromis- 
ed ; and on Wednesday, the 31st of March, Goldsmith insert- 
ed the following Address in the Daily Advertiser : — 

' TO THE PUBLIC. 

{ Lest it should be supposed that I have been willing to 
correct in others an abuse of which I have been guilty my- 
self, I beg leave to declare that in all my life I never wrote, 
or dictated, a single paragraph, letter, or essay, in a newspa- 
per, except a few moral essays, under the character of a Chi- 
nese, about ten years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to 
which I signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If the 
liberty of the press, therefore, has been abused, I have had 
no hand in it. 

3 



26 AIKINS MEMOIRS OF 

' I have always considered the press as the protector of our 
freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak 
against the encroachments of power. What concerns the 
public most properly admits of a public discussion. But, of 
late, the press has turned from defending public interest, to 
making inroads upon private life ; from combating the strong, 
to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure 
for its abuse, and the protector is become the tyrant of the 
people. In this manner the freedom of the press is begin- 
ning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution ; the great must 
oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear ; till at last 
every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, 
content with security from its insults. 

1 How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are 
indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently es- 
capes in the general censure, I am unable to tell ; all I could 
wish is, that, as the law gives us no protection against the in- 
jury, so it should give calumniators no shelter after having 
provoked correction. The insults which Ave receive before 
the public, by being more open, are the more distressing. By 
treating them with silent contempt we do not pay a sufficient 
deference to the opinion of the world. By recurring to le- 
gal redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, 
which only serves to increase our mortification by failing to 
relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider him- 
self as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his 
influence can extend, should endeavor to prevent its licen- 
tiousness becoming at last the grave of its freedom. 

Oliver Goldsmith/ 

Mr. Boswell having intimated to Dr. Johnson his suspicions 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 27 

that he was the real writer of this Address, the latter said, 
' Sir, Dr. Goldsmith would no more have asked me to have 
written such a thing as that for him, than he would have ask- 
ed me to feed him with a spoon, or to do anything else that 
denoted his imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote it, 
as if I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shewn it to any one 
friend, he would not have been allowed to .publish it. He 
has . indeed done it very well ; but it is a foolish thing well 
done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the success 
of his new comedy, that he has thought everything that con- 
cerns him must be of importance to the public' 

About a month after this, to oblige Mr. Quick, the comme- 
dian, who had very successfully exerted himself in the charac- 
ter of Tony Lumpkin, Goldsmith, we believe, reduced Sed- 
ley's ' Grumbler ' to a farce ; and it was performed for Mr. 
Quick's benefit on the 8th of May, but was never printed : 
indeed, some persons doubt whether Goldsmith did more than 
revise an alteration which had been made by some other per- 
son. 

Our author now, oddly enough, took it into his head to re- 
ject the title of Doctor (with which he had been self-invest- 
ed), and to assume the plain address of Mr. Goldsmith; but 
whatever his motive to this might be, he could not effect it 
with the public, who to the day of his death called him Doc- 
tor ; and the same title is usually annexed to his name even 
now, though the degree of Bachelor of Physic was the highest 
ever actually conferred upon him. 

After having compiled a History of Rome, and two Histo- 
ries of England, he undertook, and completed in 1773, l A 
History of the Earth and Animated Nature,' in 8 vols. 8vo., 
which was printed in 1774, and he received for it 850/. 



28 aikin's memoirs of 

The emoluments which he had derived from Ms writings 
for some few years past were, indeed, very considerable ; but 
were rendered useless in effect, by an incautious liberality, 
which prevented his distinguishing proper from improper ob- 
jects of his bounty ; and also by an unconquerable itch for 
gaming, a pursuit in which his impatience of temper, and his 
want of skill, wholly disqualified him for succeeding. 

His last production, ' Retaliation,' was written for his own 
amusement and that of his friends who were the subjects of 
it. That he did not live to finish it, is to be lamented ; for 
it is supposed that he would have introduced more characters. 
What he has left, however, is nearly perfect in its kind ; with 
wonderful art he has traced all the leading features of his 
several portraits, and given with truth the characteristic pe- 
culiarities of each ; no man is lampooned, no man is flatter- 
ed. The occasion of the poem was a circumstance of festivi- 
ty. A literary party with which he occasionally dined at the 
St. James's coffe-house, one day proposed to write epitaphs on 
him. In these, his person, dialect, etc., were good-humoredly 
ridiculed : and as Goldsmith could not disguise his feelings 
on the occasion, he was called upon for a Retaliation, which 
he produced at the next meeting of the party ; but this, with 
his ' Haunch of Venison,' and some other short poems, were 
not printed till after his death. 

He had at this time ready for the press, ' The Grecian His- 
tory, from the earliest State to the Death of Alexander the 
Great,' which was afterwards printed in 2 vols. 8vo. He had 
also formed a design of compiling a ' Universal Dictionary of 
Arts and Sciences,' a prospectus of which he printed and sent 
to his friends, many of whom had promised to furnish him with 
articles on different subjects. The booksellers, however, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 29 

though they had a high opinion of his abilities, were startled 
at the bulk, importance, and expense of so great an under- 
taking, the execution of which was to depend upon a man 
with whose indolence of temper, and method of procrastina- 
tion, they had long been acquainted : the coldness with winch 
they met his proposals was lamented by Goldsmith to the hour 
of his death ; which seems to have been accelerated by a ne- 
glect of his health, occasioned by continual vexation of mind, 
on account of his frequently involved circumstances, although 
the last year's produce of his labor is generally believed to 
have amounted to 1800Z. 

In the spring of 1774 he was attacked in a very severe 
manner by the stranguary, a disease of which he had often ex- 
perienced slight symptoms. It now induced a nervous fever, 
which required medical assistance ; and on the 25th of March 
he sent for his friend Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, to whom 
he related the symptoms of his malady, expressing at the same 
time a disgust with life, and a despondency which did not well 
become a man of his understanding. He told Mr. Hawes that 
he had taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as an emetic, 
and that it was his intention to take Dr. James's fever pow- 
ders, which he desired he would send him. Mr. Hawes rep- 
resented to his patient the impropriety of taking the medi- 
cine at that time ; but no argument could induce him to re- 
linquish his intention. Finding this, and justly apprehen- 
sive of the fatal consequences of his putting this rash resolve 
in execution, he requested permission to send for Dr. Fordyce, 
of whose medical abilities he knew that Goldsmith had the 
highest opinion. Dr. Fordyce came, and corroborated the 
apothecary's assertion, adding every argument that he could 
think of to dissuade him from using the powders in the pres- 
3* 



30 aikin's memoirs of 

ent case ; but, deaf to all the remonstrances of his physician 
and his friend, he obstinately persisted in his resolution. 

The next day Mr. Hawes again visited his patient, and in- 
quiring of him how he did, Goldsmith sighed deeply, and in 
a dejected tone said, ' I wish I had taken your friendly ad- 
vice last night.' Dr. Fordyce came, and, finding the alarm- 
ing symptoms increase, desired Mr. Hawes to propose send- 
ing for Dr. Turton : to this Goldsmith readily consented. The 
two physicians met, and held consultations twice a day till 
Monday, April 4th, when their patient died. 

Warmth of affection induced Sir Joshua Reynolds and 
other friends of Goldsmith to lay a plan for a sumptuous pub- 
lic funeral : according to which he was to have been interred 
in Westminster Abbey, and his pall to have been supported 
by Lord Shelburne (afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne), Lord 
Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Edmund Burke, the Hon. 
Topham Beauclerc, and Mr. Garrick ; but on a slight inspec- 
tion of his affairs, it was found that, so far from having left 
property to justify so expensive a proceeding, he was about 
2000?. in debt The original intention, therefore, was aban- 
doned ; and he was privately interred in the Temple burial- 
ground at five o'clock on Saturday evening, April 9 th, at- 
tended by the Rev. Joseph Palmer (nephew of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, and afterwards Dean of Cashel in Ireland), Mr. 
Hugh Kelly, Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, Messrs. John and 
Robert Day, and Mr. Etherington. 

A subscription, however, was speedily raised among Gold- 
smith's friends, but chiefly by the Literary Club ; and a mar- 
ble monumental stone, executed by Nollekens, consisting of a 
large medallion, exhibiting a good resemblance of our author, 
in profile, embellished with appropriate ornaments, was plac- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 31 

ed in Westminster Abbey, between those of Gay the poet, 
and the Duke of Argyle, in Poet's Corner ; having under- 
neath, on a tablet of white marble, the following inscription, 
from the pen of his friend, Dr. Johnson : — 

Olivarii Goldsmith, 

Poetie, Physici, Historici, 

Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 

Non tetigit 5 

Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit : 

Sive risus essent movendi 

Sive lacrymse, 

Affectuum potens et lenis dominator : 

Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, 

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus ; 

[ Hoc monumento memoriam coluit 

Sodalium amor, 

Amicorum fides, 

Lectorum veneratio. 

Natus in Hibernia, Forneise Longfordiensis, 

In loco cui nomen Pallas, 

Nov. XXIX, MDCCXXXI.* 

Eblanse Uteris institutus, 

Obiit Londini, 

Apr. iv. MDCCLxxrv. 

Of which the following is a translation : — 

By the love of his associates, 

The fidelity of his friends, 

And the veneration of his readers, 

This monument is raised 

* Johnson had been misinformed in these particulars : it has been 
since ascertained that he was born at Elphin, in the county of Eos- 
common, Nov. 29, 1728. 



32 aikin's memoirs of 

To the memory of 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

A poet, a natural philosopher, and an historian, 

Who left no species of writing untouched by his pen ; 

Nor touched any that he did not embellish : 

Whether smiles or tears were to be excited, 

He was a powerful yet gentle master 

Over the affections ; 

Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 

equal to every subject ; 

In expression at once lofty, elegant, and graceful. 

He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, 

At a place called Pallas, in the parish of Forney, 

And county of Longford, 

29th Nov. 1731* 

Educated at Dublin, 

And died in London, 

4th April, 1774. 

Beside this Latin epitaph, Dr. Johnson honored the memo- 
ry of Goldsmith with the following short one in Greek : — 

Tdv Tcicpov eicopaag rov 0?uj3apioio y Kovirjv 

*A<j>pOGl (MTJ CEfJLVTjV, EsiVE, TtO&EGOl TTUTEC ' 

Olat /ue/u7]?ie <pvai£, /j-ETpuv £«p£0. Epya TiaXaiovv 

K/MLETE TTOC7JT7]V. IGTOpLKOV, (pVGMOV. 

Mr. Boswell, who was very intimately acquainted with 
Goldsmith, thus speaks of his person and character : — 

' The person of Goldsmith was short ; his countenance coarse 
and vulgar ; his deportment that of a scholar, awkwardly af- 
fecting the complete gentleman. No man had the art of dis- 
playing, with more advantage, whatever literary acquisitions 
he made. His mind resembled a fertile but thin soil ; there 
was a quick but not a strong vegetation of whatever chanced 

* See the Note on the preceding page. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 33 

to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. The 
oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the elegant shrub- 
bery, and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay succession. 
It has been generally circulated, and believed, that he was a 
mere fool in conversation. In allusion to this, Mr. Horatio 
Walpole, who admired his writings, said, he was " an inspired 
idiot ; " and Garrick describes him as one, — 

" for shortness called Noll, 



Who wrote like an angel, and talkd like poor Poll." 

But in reality these descriptions are greatly exaggerated. . He 
had no doubt a more than common share of that hurry of 
ideas which we often find in his countrymen, and which 
sometimes introduces a laughable confusion in expressing them. 
He was very much what the French call un Hourdi : and 
from vanity, and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherev- 
er he was, he frequently talked carelessly, without any knowl- 
edge of the subject, or even without thought. Those who 
were any ways distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridic- 
ulous an excess, that the instances of it are hardly credible. 
He, I am told, had no settled system of any sort, so that his 
conduct must not be too strictly criticised ; but his affections 
were social and generous ; and when he had money, he be- 
stowed it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence 
frequently predominated over his attention to truth. 

1 His prose has been admitted as the model of perfection, 
and the standard of the English language. Dr. Johnson says, 
" Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and such 
felicity of performance, that he seemed to excel in whatever 
he attempted ; a man who had the art of being minute with- 
out tediousness, and generally without confusion ; whose Ian- 



34 aikln's memoirs op 

guage was capacious without exuberance ; exact without re- 
straint ; and easy without weakness." 

' His merit as a poet is universally acknowledged. His 
writings partake rather of the elegance and harmony of Pope, 
than the grandeur and sublimity of Milton ; and it is to be 
lamented that his poetical productions are not more numer- 
ous ; for though his ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them 
with great caution, and occupied much time in polishing his 
periods, and harmonizing his numbers. 

* His most favorite poems are, " The Traveller," " Desert- 
ed Village," " Hermit," and " Retaliation." These produc- 
tions may be justly ranked with the most admired works in 
English poetry. 

' " The Traveller " delights us with a display of charming 
imagery, refined ideas, and happy expressions. The charac- 
teristics of the different nations are strongly marked, and the 
predilection of each inhabitant in favor of his own ingeniously 
described. 

* " The Deserted Village " is generally admired ; the char- 
acters are drawn from the life. The descriptions are lively 
and picturesque ; and the whole appears so easy and natural, 
as to bear the semblance of, historical truth more than poeti- 
cal fiction. The description of the parish priest, (probably in- 
tended for a character of his brother Henry) would have 
done honor to any poet of any age. In this description, the 
simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of the moun- 
tain that rises above the storm, are not easily to be paralleled. 
The rest of the poem consists of the character of the village 
schoolmaster, and a description of the village alehouse ; both 
drawn with admirable propriety and force ; a descant on the 
mischiefs of luxury and wealth ; the variety of artificial please 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 35 

ures ; the miseries of those who, for want of employment at 
home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad ; and concludes 
with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 

'" The Hermit" holds equal estimation with the rest of his 
poetical productions. 

' His last poem, of " Retaliation," is replete with humor, 
free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the prominent features 
of the several characters to which it alludes. Dr. Johnson 
sums up his literary character in the following concise man- 
ner : " Take him [Goldsmith] as a poet, his ' Traveller ' is a 
very fine performance ; and so is his ' Deserted Village,' were 
it not sometimes too much the echo of his ' Traveller.' Wheth- 
er we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an histori- 
an, he stands in the first class." ' 

We have before observed, that his poem of ' Retaliation ' 
was provoked by several jocular epitaphs written upon him 
by the different members of a dinner club to which he be- 
longed. Of these we subjoin a part of that which was pro- 
duced by Garrick : — 

' Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, 
Go, fetch me some clay — I will make an odd fellow- 
Right and wrong shall he jumbled ; much gold, and some dross ; 
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross ; 
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions ; 
A great lover of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions. 
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in th«e baking, 
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking 5 
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste, 
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ; 
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, 
Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail 5 
For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it, 
This scholar, rake, christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 



36 aikin's memoirs of 

Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, 
And among other mortals be Goldsmith his name. 
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, 
You, Hermes, shall fetch him, to make us sport here.' 

To these we shall add another sketch of our author (by 
way of Epitaph), written by a friend as soon as he heard of 
his death : — 

c Here rests from the cares of the world and his pen, 
A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again ; 
Who, though form'd in an age when corruptions ran high. 
And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie j 
When Genius with traffic too commonly train'd, 
Recounted her merits by what she had gain'd, 
Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf, 
And in poverty's spite dared to think for himself. 
Thus freed from those fetters the muses oft bind, 
He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind - 7 
And such was the prevalent force of h is song, 
Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. 

' The lovers — T t was theirs to esteem and commend, 
For his Hermit had proved him their tutor and friend. 
The statesman, his politic passions on fire, 
Acknowledged repose from the charms of his lyre. 
The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes, 
For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times- 
Nay, the critic, all schooFd in grammatical sense, 
Who looked in the glow of description for tense y 
Reform'd as he read, fell a dupe to his art, 
And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart, 

' Yet, bless'd with original powers like these, 
His principal forte was on paper to please ; 
Like a fleet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, 
On the road of plain sense he oft slackened his pace j 
Whilst Dulness and Cunning, by whipping and goring, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 37 

Their hard-footed hackneys paraded before him. 

Compounded likewise of such primitive parts, 

That his manners alone would have gain'd him our hearts. 

So simple in truth, so ingenuously kind, 

So ready to feel for the wants of mankind ; 

Yet praise but an author of popular quill, 

This lux of philanthropy quickly stood still ; 

Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe, 

A.nd rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear. 

1 Such then were his foibles ; but though they were such 
As shadow'd the picture a little too much, 
The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand, 
And the whole the result of a masterly hand. 

' Then hear me, blest spirit ! now seated above, 
Where all is beatitude, concord, and love, 
If e'er thy regards were bestow'd on mankind, 
Thy muse as a leoacy leave us behind. 
I ask it by proxy for letters and fame, 
As the pride of our heart and the old English name. 
I demand it as such for virtue and truth, 
As the solace of age and the guide of our youth. 
Consider what poets surround us — how dull ! 

From Minstrelsy B e to Rosamond H — 11 ! 

Consider what K — ys enervate the stage ; 

Consider what K cks may poison the age 5 

O ! protect us from such, nor let it be said, 

That in Goldsmith the last British poet lies dead ! ' 



ON THE 

POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH, 

BY DR. AIKIN. 



Among those false opinions which, having once obtained 
currency, have been adopted without examination, may be 
reckoned the prevalent notion, that, notwithstanding the im- 
provement of this country in many species of literary compo- 
sition, its poetical character has been on the decline ever since 
the supposed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] 
century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded to the 
laurel of Dry den or Pope ; but if without prejudice we com- 
pare the minor poets of the present age {minor, I mean y with 
respect to the quantity, not the quality, of their productions) ? 
with those of any former period, we shall, I am convinced., 
find them greatly superior not only in taste and correctness., 
but in every other point of poetical excellence. The works 
of many late and present writers might be confidently appeal- 
ed to in proof of this assertion ; but it will suffice to instance 
the author who is the subject of the present Essay ; and I 
cannot for a moment hesitate to place the name of Goldsmith 
as a poet, above that of Addison, Parnell r Tickell, Congreve, 
Lansdown, or any of those who fill the greater part of the 



ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S POETRY. 39 

voluminous collection of the English Poets. Of these, the main 
body has obtained a prescriptive right to the honor of classi- 
cal writers ; while their works, ranged on the shelves as neces- 
sary appendages to a modern library, are rarely taken down, 
and contribute very little to the stock of literary amusement. 
Whereas the pieces of Goldsmith are our familiar compan- 
ions ; and supply passages for recollection, when our minds 
are either composed to moral reflection, or warmed by 
strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, I 
acknowledge, much of habit and accident in the attach- 
ments we form to particular writers ; yet I have little 
doubt, that if the lovers of English poetry were confined 
to a small selection of authors, Goldsmith would find 
a place in the favorite list of a great majority. And it is, 
I think, with much justice that a great modern critic has ever 
regarded this concurrence of public favor, as one of the least 
equivocal tests of uncommon merit Some kinds of excellence, 
it is true, will more readily be recognized than others ; and 
this will not always be in proportion to the degree of mental 
power employed in the respective productions : but he who 
obtains general and lasting applause in any work of art, 
must have happily executed a design judiciously formed. 
This remark is of fundamental consequence in estimating the 
poetry of Goldsmith ; because it will enable us to hold the 
balance steady, when it might be disposed to. incline to the 
superior claims of a style of loftier pretension, and more 
brilliant reputation. 

Compared with many poets of deserved eminence, Gold- 
smith will appear characterized by his simplicity. In his lan- 
guage will be found few of those figures which are supposed 
of themselves to constitute poetry ; — no violent transpositions ; 



40 ON THE POETRY 

no uncommon meanings and constructions ; no epithets drawn 
from abstract and remote ideas ; no coinage of new words by 
the ready mode of turning nouns into verbs ; no bold prosopo- 
poeia, or audacious metaphor : — it scarcely contains an ex- 
pression which might not be used in eloquent and descriptive 
prose. It is replete with imagery ; but that imagery is drawn 
from obvious sources, and rather enforces the simple idea, than 
dazzles by new and unexpected ones. It rejects not common 
words and phrases ; and, like the language of Dryden and 
Otway, is thereby rendered the more forcible and pathetic. 
It is eminently nervous and concise ; and hence affords nu- 
merous passages which dwell on the memory. With respect 
to his matter, it is taken from human life, and the objects of 
nature. It does not body forth things unknown, and create 
new beings. Its humbler purpose is to represent manners and 
characters as they really exist; to impress strongly on the 
heart moral and political sentiments ; and to fill the imagina- 
tion with a variety of pleasing or affecting objects selected 
from the stores of nature. If this be not the highest depart- 
ment of poetry, it has the advantage of being the most uni- 
versally agreeable. To receive delight from the sublime fic- 
tions of Milton, the allegories of Spenser, the learning of Gray, 
and the fancy of Collins, the mind must have been prepared 
by a course of particular study ; and perhaps, at a certain 
period of life, when the judgment exercises a severer scrutiny 
over the sallies of the imagination, the relish for artificial 
beauties will always abate, if not entirely desert us. But at 
every age, and with every degree of culture, correct and well- 
chosen representations of nature must please. We admire them 
when young ; we recur to them when old ; and they charm 
us till nothing longer can charm. Farther, in forming a scale 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 41 

of excellence for artists, we are not only to consider who 
works upon the noblest design, but who fills his design best. 
It is, in reality, but a poor excuse for a slovenly performer to 
say ' magnis tamen excidit ausis ; ' and the addition of one 
master-piece of any kind to the stock of art, is a greater ben- 
efit, than that of a thousand abortive and mis-shapen wonders. 

If Goldsmith then be referred to the class of descriptive 
poets, including the description of moral as well as of physical 
nature, it will next be important to inquire by what means 
he has attained the rank of a master in his class. Let us then 
observe how he has selected, combined, and contrasted his 
objects, with what truth and strength of coloring he has ex- 
pressed them, and to what end and purpose. 

As poetry and eloquence do not describe by an exact enu- 
meration of every circumstance, it is necessary to select cer- 
tain particulars which may excite a sufficiently distinct image 
of the thing to be represented. In this selection, the great art 
is to give characteristic marks, whereby the object may at once 
be recognized, without being obscured in a mass of common 
properties, which belong equally to many others. Hence the 
great superiority of 'particular images to general ones in de- 
scription : the former identify, while the latter disguise. Thus, 
all the hackneyed representations of the country in the works 
of ordinary versifiers, in which groves, and rills, and flowery 
meads are introduced just as the rhyme and measure require, 
present nothing to the fancy but an indistinct daub of color- 
ing, in which all the diversity of nature is lost and confounded. 
To catch the discriminating features, and present them bold 
and prominent, by few, but decisive strokes, is the talent of a 
master ; and it will not be easy to produce a superior to 
Goldsmith in this respect. The mind is never in doubt as 
4* 



42 ON THE POETRY 

to the meaning of his figures, nor does it languish over the 
survey of trivial and unappropriated circumstances. All is 
alive — all is filled — yet all is clear. 

The proper combination of objects refers to the impression 
they are calculated to make on the mind ; and requires that 
they should harmonize, and reciprocally enforce and sustain 
each other's effect. They should unite in giving one leading 
tone to the imagination ; and without a sameness of form, they 
should blend in an uniformity of hue. This, too, has very suc- 
cessfully been attended to by Goldsmith, who has not only 
sketched his single figures with truth and spirit, but has com- 
bined them into the most harmonious and impressive groups. 
Nor has any descriptive poet better understood the great force 
of contrast, in setting off his scenes, and preventing any ap- 
proach to wearisomeness by repetition of kindred objects. 
And, with great skill, he has contrived that both parts of his 
contrast should conspire in producing one intended moral ef- 
fect. Of all these excellences, examples will be pointed out 
as we take a cursory view of the particular pieces. 

In addition to the circumstances already noted, the force 
and clearness of representation depend also on the diction. 
It has already been observed, that Goldsmith's language is 
remarkable for its general simplicity, and the direct and proper 
use of words. It has ornaments, but these are not far-fetched. 
The epithets employed are usually qualities strictly belonging 
to the subject, and the true coloring of the simple figure. 
They are frequently contrived to express a necessary circum- 
stance in the description, and thus avoid the usual imputation 
of being expletive. Of this kind are ' the rattling terrors of 
the vengeful snake ; ' indurated heart ;' ' shed intolerable day f 
1 matted woods ;' ' ventrous ploughshare ;' ' equinoctial fervors/ 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 43 

The examples are not few of that indisputable mark of true 
poetic language, where a single word conveys an image ; as in 
these instances : ' resignation gently slopes the way ;' ' scoops 
out an empire ;' ' the vessel, idly waiting, flaps with every 
gale ;' ' to winnow fragrance ;' ' murmurs fluctuate in the gale.' 
All metaphor, indeed, does this in some degree ; but where the 
accessory idea is either indistinct or incongruous, as frequently 
happens when it is introduced as an artifice to force language 
up to poetry, the effect is only a gaudy obscurity. 

The end and purpose to which description is directed is 
what distinguishes a well-planned piece from a loose effusion ; 
for though a vivid representation of striking objects will ever 
afford some pleasure, yet if aim and design be wanting, to 
give it a basis, and stamp it with the dignity of meaning, it 
will in a long performance prove flat and tiresome. But this 
is a want which cannot be charged on Goldsmith ; for both 
the Traveller and the Deserted Village have a great moral in 
view, to which the whole of the description is made to tend. 
I do not now inquire into the legitimacy of the conclusions 
he has drawn from his premises ; it is enough to justify his 
plans, that such a purpose is included in them. 

The versification of Goldsmith is formed on the general 
model that has been adopted since the refinement of English 
poetry, and especially since the time of Pope. To manage 
rhyme couplets so as to produce a pleasing effect on the ear, 
has since that period been so common an attainment, that it 
merits no particular admiration. Goldsmith may, I think, 
be said to have come up to the usual standard of proficiency 
in this respect, without having much surpassed it. A musical 
ear, and a familiarity with the best examples, have enabled 
him, without much apparent study, almost always to avoid 



44 ON THE POETRY 

defect, and very often to produce excellence. It is no censure 
of this poet to say that his versification presses less on the at- 
tention than his matter. In fact he has none of those pecu- 
liarities of versifying, whether improvements or not, that some 
who aim at distinction in this point have adopted. He gen- 
erally suspends or closes the sense at the end of the line or of 
the couplet ; and therefore does not often give examples of 
that greater compass and variety of melody which is obtained 
by longer clauses, or by breaking the coincidences of the ca- 
dence of sound and meaning. He also studiously rejects trip- 
lets and alexandrines. But allowing for the want of these 
sources of variety, he has sufficiently avoided monotony ; and 
in the usual flow of his measure, he has gratified the ear with 
as much change, as judiciously shifting the line-pause can pro- 
duce. 

Having made these general observations on the nature of 
Goldsmith's poetry, I proceed to a survey of his principal 
pieces. 

The Traveller, or Prospect of Society, was first sketched out 
by the author during a tour in Europe, great part of which 
he performed on foot, and in circumstances which afforded 
him the fullest means of becoming acquainted with the toost 
numerous class in society, peculiarly termed the people. The 
date of the first edition is 1765. It begins in the gloomy 
mood natural to genius in distress, when wandering alone, 

'■ Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.' , 

After an affectionate and regretful glance to the peaceful 
seat of fraternal kindness, and some expressions of self-pity, 
the Poet sits down amid Alpine solitudes to sj3end a pensive 
hour in meditating on the state of mankind. He finds that 



OF DR. G-OLD SMITH. 45 

the natives of every land regard their own with preference ; 
whence he is led to this proposition, — that if we impartially 
compare the advantages belonging to different countries, we 
shall conclude that an equal portion of good is dealt to all" the 
human race. He farther supposes, that every nation, having 
in view one peculiar species of happiness, models life to that 
alone ; whence this favorite kind, pushed to an extreme, be- 
comes a source of peculiar evils. To exemplify this by in- 
stances, is the business of the subsequent descriptive part of 
the piece. 

Italy is the first country that comes under review. Its gen- 
eral landscape is painted by a few characteristic strokes, and 
the felicity of its climate is displayed in appropriate imagery. 
The revival of arts and commerce in Italy, and their subse- 
quent decline, are next touched upon ; and hence is derived 
the present disposition of the people — easily pleased with 
splendid trifles, the wrecks of their former grandeur ; and 
sunk into an enfeebled moral and intellectual character, re- 
ducing them to the level of children. 

From these he turns with a sort of disdain, to view a no- 
bler race, hardened by a rigorous climate, and by the neces- 
sity of unabating toil. These are the Swiss, who find, in the 
equality of their condition, and their ignorance of other modes 
of life, a source of content which remedies the natural evils 
of their lot. There cannot be a more delightful picture than 
the poet has drawn of the Swiss peasant, going forth to his 
morning's labor, and returning at night to the bosom of do- 
mestic happiness. It sufficiently accounts for that patriot pas- 
sion for which they have ever been so celebrated, and which 
is here described in lines that reach the heart, and is illustrat- 
ed by a beautiful simile. But this state of life has also its 



46 ON THE POETRY 

disadvantages. The sources of enjoyment being few, a vacant 
listlessness is apt to creep upon the breast ; and if nature 
urges to throw this off by occasional bursts of pleasure, no 
stimulus can reach the purpose but gross sensual debauch. 
Their morals, too, like their enjoyments, are of a coarse tex- 
ture. Some sterner virtues hold high dominion in their 
breast, but all the gentler and more refined qualities of the 
heart, which soften and sweeten life, are exiled to milder cli- 
mates. 

To the more genial climate of France the traveller next 
repairs, and in a very pleasing rural picture he introduces 
himself in the capacity of musician to a village party of danc- 
ers beside the murmuring Loire. The leading feature of this 
nation he represents as being the love of praise ; which pas- 
sion, while it inspires sentiments of honor, and a desire of 
pleasing, also affords a free course to folly, and nourishes van- 
ity and ostentation. The soul, accustomed to depend for its 
happiness on foreign applause, shifts its principles with the 
change of fashion, and is a stranger to the value of self-ap- 
probation. 

The strong contrast to this national character is sought in 
Holland ; a most graphical description of the scenery present- 
ed by that singular country introduces the moral portrait of 
the people. From the necessity of unceasing labor, induced 
by their peculiar circumstances, a habit of industry has been 
formed, of which the natural consequence is a love of gain. 
The possession of exuberant wealth has given rise to the arts 
and conveniences of life ; but at the same time has introduc- 
ed a crafty, cold, and mercenary temper, which sets every- 
thing, even liberty itself, at a price. How different, exclaims 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 47 

tlie poet, from their Belgian ancestors ! how different from the 
present race of Britain ! 

To Britain, then, he turns, and begins with a slight sketch 
of the country, in which, he says, the mildest charms of crea- 
tion are combined. 

' Extremes are only in the master's mind.' 

He then draws a very striking picture of a stern, thoughtful ? 
independent freeman, a creature of reason, unfashionlH by the 
common forms of life, and loose from all its ties ; — and this he 
gives as the representative of the English character. A so- 
ciety formed by such unyielding, self-dependent beings, will 
naturally be a scene of violent political contests, and ever in 
a ferment with party. And a still worse fate awaits it ; for 
the ties of nature, duty, and love, failing, the fictitious bonds 
of wealth and law must be employed to hold together such a 
reluctant association ; whence the time may come, that valor, 
learning, and patriotism, may all lie levelled in one sink of 
avarice. These are the ills of freedom ; but the Poet, who 
would only repress to secure, goes on to deliver his ideas of 
the cause of such mischiefs, which he seems to place in the 
usurpations of aristocratical upon regal authority ; and with 
great energy he expresses his indignation at the oppressions 
the poor suffer from their petty tyrants. This leads him to a 
kind of anticipation of the subject of his ' Deserted Village,' 
where, laying aside the politician, and resuming the poet, he 
describes, by a few highly pathetic touches, the depopulated 
fields, the ruined village, and the poor, forlorn inhabitants, 
driven from their beloved home, and exposed to all the per- 
ils of the transatlantic wilderness. It is by no means my in- 
tention to enter into a discussion of Goldsmith's political 



48 ON THE POETRY 

opinions, which bear evident marks of confused notions and a 
heated imagination. I shall confine myself to a remark upon 
the English national character, which will apply to him in 
common with various other writers, native and foreign. 

This country has long been in the possession of more unre- 
strained freedom of thinking and acting than any other perhaps 
that ever existed ; a consequence of which has been, that all 
those peculiarities of character, which in other nations remain 
concealed in the general mass, have here stood forth prominent 
and conspicuous ; and these being from their nature calculated 
to draw attention, have by superficial observers been mistaken 
for the general character of the people. This has been par- 
ticularly the case with political distinction. From the publici- 
ty of all proceedings in the legislative part of our constitution 
and the independence with which many act, all party differ- 
ences are strongly marked, and public men take their side 
with openness and confidence. Public topics, too, are dis- 
cussed by all ranks ; and whatever seeds there are in any 
part of the society of spirit and activity, have full opportunity 
of germinating. But to imagine that these busy and high- 
spirited characters compose a majority of the community, or 
perhaps a much greater proportion than in other countries, is 
a delusion. This nation, as a body, is, like all others, char- 
acterized by circumstances of its situation ; and a rich com- 
mercial people, long trained to society, inhabiting a climate 
where many things are necessary to the comfort of life, and 
under a government abounding with splendid distinctions, 
cannot possibly be a knot of philosophers and patriots. 

To return from this digression. Though it is probable that 
few of Goldsmith's readers will be convinced, even from 
the instances he has himself produced, that the happiness of 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 49 

mankind is everywhere equal ; yet all will feel the force of 
the truly philosophical sentiment which concludes the piece — 
that man's chief bliss is ever seated in his mind ; and that but 
a small part of real felicity consists in what human govern- 
ments can either bestow or withhold. 

The Deserted Village, first printed in 1769, is the compan- 
ion-piece of the Traveller, formed, like it, upon a plan which 
unites description with sentiment, and employs both in incul- 
cating a political moral. It is a view of the prosperous and 
ruined state of a country village, with reflections on the caus- 
' es of both. Such it may be defined in prose ; but the dispo- 
sition, management, and coloring of the piece, are all calculat- 
ed for poetical effect. It begins with a delightful picture Of 
Auburn when inhabited by a happy people. The view of the 
village itself, and the rural occupations and pastimes of its sim- 
ple natives, is in the best style of painting, by a selection of 
characteristic circumstances. Is is immediately contrasted by 
a similar bold sketch of its ruined and desolated condition. 
Then succeeds an imaginary state of England, in a kind of 
golden age of equality ; with its contrast likewise. The apos- 
trophe that follows, the personal complaint of the poet, and the 
portrait of a sage in retirement, are sweetly sentimental touch- 
es, that break the continuity of description. 

He returns to Auburn, and having premised another mas- 
terly sketch of its two states, in which the images are chiefly 
drawn from sounds, he proceeds to what may be called the 
interior history of the village. In his first figure he has tried 
his strength with Dryden. The parish priest of that great 
poet, improved from Chaucer, is a portrait full of beauty, but 
drawn in a loose, unequal manner, with the flowing vein of 
digressive thought and imagery that stamps his style. The 



50 ON THE POETRY 

subject of the draught, too, is considerably different from that 
of Goldsmith, having more of the ascetic and mortified cast, 
in conformity to the saintly model of the Roman Catholic 
priesthood. The pastor of Auburn is more human, but is 
not on that account a less venerable and interesting figure ; 
though I know not whether all will be pleased with his famil- 
iarity with vicious characters, which goes beyond the purpose 
of mere reformation. The description of him in his profes- 
sional character is truly admirable ; and the similes of the 
bird instructing his young to fly, and the tall cliff rising above 
the storm, have been universally applauded. The first, I be- 
lieve, is original ; — the second is not so, though it has pro- 
bably never been so well drawn and applied. The subse- 
quent sketches of the village schoolmaster and alehouse, are 
close imitations of nature in low life, like the pictures of 
Teniers and Hogarth. Yet even these humorous scenes slide 
imperceptibly into sentiment and pathos ; and the comparison 
of the simple pleasures of the poor, with the splendid festivities 
of the opulent, rises to the highest style of moral poetry. 
Who has not felt the force of that reflection, 

' The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy % ' 

The writer then falls into a strain of reasoning against lux- 
ury and superfluous wealth, in which the sober inquirer will 
find much serious truth, though mixed with poetical exagger- 
ation. The description of the contrasted scenes of magnifi- 
cence and misery in a great metropolis, closed by the pathetic 
figure of the forlorn, ruined female, is not to be surpassed. 

Were not the subjects of Goldsmith's description so 
skilfully varied, the uniformity of manner, consisting in an 
enumeration of single circumstances, generally depicted in 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 51 

single lines, might tire ; but, where is the reader who can avoid 
being hurried along by the swift current of imagery, when to 
such a passage as the last succeeds a landscape fraught with 
all the sublime terrors of the torrid zone ; — and then, an ex- 
quisitely tender history-piece of the departure of the villagers : 
concluded with a group ( slightly touched indeed ) of alle- 
gorical personages ? A noble address to the Genius of Poetry, 
in which is compressed the moral of the whole, gives a dig- 
nified finishing to the work. 

If we compare these two principal poems of Goldsmith, 
we may say, that the ' Traveller ' is formed upon a more regu- 
lar plan, has a higher purpose in view, more abounds in 
thought, and in the expression of moral and philosophical 
ideas ; the ' Deserted Village ' has more imagery, more variety, 
more pathos, more of the peculiar character of poetry. In 
the first, the moral and natural descriptions are more general 
and elevated ; in the second, they are more particular and 
interesting. Both are truly original productions ; but the 
* Deserted Village ' has less peculiarity, and indeed has given 
rise to imitations which may stand in some parallel with it ; 
while the ' Traveller ' remains an unique. 

With regard to Goldsmith's other poems, a few remarks 
will suffice. The ' Hermit, ' printed in the same year with 
the ' Traveller, ' has been a very popular piece, as might be 
expected of a tender tale prettily told. It is called a ' Ballad,' 
but I think with no correct application of that term, which 
properly means a story related in language either natur- 
ally or affectedly rude and simple. It has been a sort of a 
fashion to admire these productions ; yet in the really ancient 
ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of insipidity 
and vulgarity ; and the imitations have been pleasing in pro- 



52 ON DR. GOLDSMITHS POETRY. 

portion as they approached more finished compositions. In 
Goldsmith's ' Hermit,' the language is always polished, and 
often ornamented. The best things in it are some neat turns 
of moral and pathetic sentiment, given with a simple concise- 
ness that fits them for being retained in the memory. As to 
the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to recommend it. 

We have already seen that Goldsmith possessed humor ; 
and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces professedly humorous 
form a part of his poetical remains. His imitations of Swift 
are happy, but they are imitations. His tale of the ' Double 
Transformation' may vie with those of Prior. His own nat- 
ural vein of easy humor flows freely in his ' Haunch of 
Venison ' and ' Retaliation ; ' the first, an admirable specimen 
of a very ludicrous story made out of a common incident by 
the help of conversation and character ; the other, an orig- 
inal thought, in which his talent at drawing portraits, with a 
mixture of the serious and the comic, is most happily dis- 
played. 



POEMS, 



5* 



VERSES 

ON THE 

DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



EXTKACT FROM A POEM 

WKITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ., 

ON THE DEATH OP EMINENT ENGLISH POETS. 

THE TEAES OF GENIUS. 

The village bell tolls out the note of death, 
And through the echoing air the length'ning sound, 
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep, 
Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale. 
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had praised 
In all the sweet simplicity of song, 
Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat, 
And herded jocund with the harmless swains ; 
But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell, 
With startled step, precipitate and swift, 
And look pathetic, full of dire presage, 
The church-way walk beside the neigb'ring green, 
Sorrowing she sought ; and there, in black array, 
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he loved, 
She saw the boast of Auburn moved along. 



56 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast she struck, 

And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs, 

With leaning slope and branch irregular, 

O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane, 

The brier-bound graves shadowing with funeral gloom, 

Forlorn she hied ; and there the crowding wo 

(Swell'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 

Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, 

Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart, 

And pale Distress sat sickly on her cheek, 

As thus her plaintive Elegy began : — 

' And must my children all expire ? 

Shall none be left to strike the lyre ? 

Courts Death alone a learned prize ? 

Falls his shafts only on the wise ? 

Can no fit marks on earth be found, 

From useless thousands swarming round ? 

What crowding ciphers cram the land. 

What hosts of victims, at command ! 

Yet shall the ingenious drop alone ? 

Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ? 

Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train, 

I charge thee with my children slain ! 
Scarce has the sun thrice urged his annual tour, 
Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power ; 

Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art, 

And struck a muse with every dart ; 
Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call, 
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall. 

Then let a widow'd mother pay 

The tribute of a parting lay ; 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. , 57 

Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain, 
And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 

' And first, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 
1 Thou pride of Auburn's dale — sweet bard, farewell ! 
Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow, # 
And many a virgin bosom heave with woe ; 
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene, 
And every pastime perish on the green ; 
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale, 
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale, 
No more shall Mirth each rustic sport inspire, 
But every frolic, every feat, shall tire. 
No more the evening gambol shall delight, 
Nor moonshine-revels crown the vacant night ; 
But groups of villagers (each joy forgot) 
Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 
Sweet bard, farewell ! — and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss : 
The evening warble Philomela made, 
The echoing forest, and the whispering shade, 
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content, 
And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went : " 
These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care, 
But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 

1 Goldsmith, adieu; the " book-learn'd priest" for 
thee 
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee, 
The oft-heard jest in vain- he shall reveal, 
For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel. 
But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend, 
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ; 



58 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song, 

And cease to carol as she toils along : 

All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day, 

When from her fields their pride was snatch'd away. 

And e\*en the matron of the cressy lake, 

In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 

While all adown the furrows of her face 

Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace. 

< And, oh, my child ! severer woes remain 
To all the houseless and unshelter'd train ! 
Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest, 
And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast ; 
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain, 
To all that wander, sorrow or complain : 
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear, 
For daily blessing mark'd thy virtuous year ; 
The rich received a moral from thy head, 
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed : 
Distress came always smiling from thy door ; 
For God had made thee agent to the poor, 
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan, 
To grace at once the poet and the man/ 



EXTRACT FROM A MONODY. 

Dark as the night, which now in dunnest robe 
Ascends her zenith o'er the silent globe, 
Sad Melancholy wakes, a while to tread, 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 59 

With solemn step, the mansions of the dead : 

Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine 

I sorrowing bend ; and here essay to twine 

The tributary wreath of laureat bloom, 

With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb, — 

The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, adieu ! 

No more your airy dreams shall mock my view ; 

Here will I learn ambition to control, 

And each aspiring passion of the soul : 

E'en now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 

When late he meditated flight from care, 

When, as imagination fondly hied 

To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried : — 

' Ye splendid fabrics, palaces, and towers, 
Where dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
Where pomp, disease, and knavery reside, 
And folly bends the knee to wealthy pride ; 
Where luxury's purveyors learn to rise, 
And worth, to want a prey, unfriended dies ; 
Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
And hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 
Farewell ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 
Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies — 
Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades, 
Forlorn, yet ever dear and honor'd shades, 
There, though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 
Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain, 
No needy villains prowl around for prey, 
No slanderers, no sycophants betray ; 
No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 
The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride, — 



60 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

There will I fly to seek that soft repose, 
Which solitude contemplative bestows. 
Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there still remains 
One lingering friend behind, to bless the plains ; 
Some hermit of the dale, enshrined in ease, 
Long lost companion of my youthful days ; 
With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 
I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 
To whose pure sympathy I may impart 
Each latent grief that labors at my heart, 
Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate, 
The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state, — 
Those busy scenes, where science wakes in vain, 
In which I shared, ah ! ne'er to share again. 
But whence that pang ? does nature now rebel ? 
Why falters out my tongue the word farewell ? 
Te friends ! who long have witness'd to my toil, 
And seen me ploughing in a thankless soil, 
Whose partial tenderness hush'd every pain, 
Whose approbation made my bosom vain, — 
' Tis you to whom my soul divided hies 
With fond regret, and half unwilling flies ; 
Sighs forth her parting wishes to the wind, 
And lingering leaves her better half behind. 
Can I forget the intercourse I shared, 
What friendship cherish'd, and what zeal endear'd ? 
Alas ! remembrance still must turn to you, 
And, to my latest hour, protract the long adieu. 
Amid the woodlands, wheresoe'er I rove, 
The plain, or secret covert of the grove, 
Imagination shall supply her store 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. bl 

Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 

Shall strew each lonely path with flow'rets gay, 

And wide as is her boundless empire stray ; 

On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies, 

And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 

Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 

Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand ; 

Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 

And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 

There, spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome, 

The champion, there, of liberty and Rome, 

In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws, 

And uncorrupted senates shout applause. 

Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 

Of Nuraa, when to midnight grots he stole, 

And learnt his lore, from virtue's mouth refined, 

To fetter vice, and harmonize mankind. 

Now stretch'd at ease beside some fav'rite stream 

Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 

Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won, 

The Graces three, and Japhet's * fabled son ; 

Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, 

And see a new creation wait his nod ; 

Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power, 

And to my arms my absent friends restore ; 

Place me amidst the group, each well known face, 

The sons of science, lords of human race ; 

And as oblivion sinks at his command, 

Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. 

* Prometheus. 
6 



62 % COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

Thus some magician, fraught with potent skill, 
Transforms and moulds each varied mass at will ; 
Calls animated forms of wondrous birth, 
Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, 
Unceres the ponderous tombs, the realms of night, 
And calls their cold inhabitants to light ; 
Or, as he traverses a dreary scene, 
Bids every sweet of nature there convene, 
Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, 
The shrub-deck'd lawns, and silver-sprinkled floods, 
Whilst flow'rets spring around the smiling land, 
And follow on the traces of his wand. 

' Such prospects, lovely Auburn ! then, be thine, 
And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine ; 
Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease, 
Grant me to pass the remnant of my days. 
Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, 
My raptured muse shall pour her noblest strain, 
Within her native bowers the notes prolong, 
And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 
Thus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 
And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end, 
Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd, 
A self-approving heart alone possess'd, 
Content, to bounteous Heaven I '11 leave the rest.' 

Thus spoke the Bard : but not one friendly power 
With nod assentive crown'd the parting hour ; 
No eastern meteor glared beneath the sky, 
No dextral omen : Nature heaved a sigh 
Prophetic of the dire, impending blow, 
The presage of her loss, and Britain's woe. 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 63 

Already portion'd, unrelenting fate 

Had made a pause upon the nuraber'd date ; 

Behind stood Death, too horrible for sight, 

In darkness clad, expectant, pruned for flight ; 

Pleased at the word, the shapeless monster sped, 

On eager message to the humble shed, 

Where, wrapt by soft poetic visions round, 

Sweet slumbering, Fancy's darling son he found. 

At his approach the silken pinion'd train, 

Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, 

Which late they fann'd. Now other scenes than dales 

Of woody pride, succeed, or flowery vales : 

As when a sudden tempest veils the sky, 

Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly, 

The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll 

Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 

Terrific horrors all the void invest, 

Whilst the arch spectre issues forth confest. 

The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 

Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb ; 

In vain attempts to fly, th' impassive air 

Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 

He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein, 

And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 

Here paused the fell destroyer, to survey 

The pride, the boast of man, his destined prey ; 

Prepared to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, 

And plunged the steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 

Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, 

And leave on Nature's face a ghastly wound, 

A wound enroll'd among Britannia's woes, 



64 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

That ages yet to follow cannot close. 

O Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
To murmur out her slow, incondite lay ? 
In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, 
That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain ? 
Much-honored Bard ! if my untutor'd verse 
Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse, 
With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, 
And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
But, ah ! with thee my guardian genius fled, 
And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : 
Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
And pensive stalks the solitary plains, 
Rich in her sorrows ; honors without art 
She pays in tears redundant from the heart. 
And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust 
To heap the graven pile, or laurell'd bust ; 
Since by thy hands already raised on high, 
We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky ; 
Where, hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
Shall travel on, till Nature is no more ? 



LINES BY W. WOTTY. 

Adieu, sweet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few, — ■ 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 65 

Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and these 
With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
Another's woe thy heart could always melt ; 
None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. 
Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise : 
Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day ; 
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
Reader, if number'd in the Muse's train, 
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
Depart in peace, and imitate the man. 



THE TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



DEDICATION. 

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 

Dear Sir, — I am sensible that the friendship between us 
can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedica- 
tion ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your 
name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your 
own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you 
from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be on- 
ly inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many 
parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed 
to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early 
to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds 
a-year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your hum- 
ble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where 
the harvest is great, and the laborers are but few ; while you 
have left the field of ambition, where the laborers are many 
and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds 
of ambition — what from the refinement of the times, from 



THE TRAVELLER. 67 

different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party 
— that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished na- 
tions ; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, 
painting and music come in for a share. As these offer the 
feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival 
poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all that fa- 
vor once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize 
upon the elder's birthright. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it 
is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the 
learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard 
of late in favor of blank verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, 
anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! 
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; and as he 
is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say ; 
for error is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, — 
I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and des- 
troys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this 
disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to in- 
crease the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists 
from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human 
flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with cal- 
umny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon mur- 
dered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half- 
witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having 
lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the 
name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his 
turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, 



68 THE TRAVELLER. 

party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I 
solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing 
the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the 
rage of all. I have endeavored to shew that there may be 
equal happiness in states that are differently governed from 
our own ; that every state has a particular principle of happi- 
ness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
chievous excess. There are few can judge better than your- 
self how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, 
dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE TRAVELLER. 



Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Sheld, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ! 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 



70 THE TRAVELLER. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care ; 
ImpelFd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view, 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear : 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown-Id 5 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine, 
Creation's heir, the world - — the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 



THE TRAVELLER,. 71 

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still. 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; 
r Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the sum of human bliss so small : 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the Line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 



72 THE TRAVELLER. 

And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent, — - 
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, 
And honor sinks, where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favorite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
Till carried to excess in each domain, 
This Favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between, 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 



THE TRAVELLER. 73 

Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ! 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind : 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state ; 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
7 



74 THE TRAVELLER. 

From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 

An easy compensation seem to find. 

Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd, 

The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 

Processions form'd for piety and love, 

A mistress or a saint in every grove. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; 

The sports of children satisfy the child : 

Each nobler aim repress'd by long control, 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 

While low delights succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind ; 

As in those dooms where Caesars once bore sway, 

Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 

And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
•But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 



I 



THE TRAVELLER. 75 

He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 

To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 

To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 

Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 

Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, 

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 

With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 

Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 

At night returning, every labor sped, 

He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 

Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 

His children's looks that brighten to the blaze, 

While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 

Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 

And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to .the mother's breast, , 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 



76 THE TRAVELLER. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign 'd : 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined ; 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For every want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a-year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, — 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,- 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 



THE TRAVELLER. 77 

I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 

Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 

Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, 

How often have I led thy sportive choir, 

With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 

Where shading elms along the margin grew, 

And freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 

And haply, though my harsh touch flatt'ring still, 

But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 

Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 

And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 

Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 

Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; 

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 

Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 



78 THE TRAVELLER. 

And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year : 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 



THE TRAVELLER. 79 

With all those ills superflous treasure brings, 

Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 

Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; 

Even liberty itself is barter'd here ; 

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 

Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 

And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 

Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great, 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'cl, fresh from nature's hand, 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right above control, — 



80 THE TRAVELLER. 

"While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as aao*-" 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
But, fostered e'en by Freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten- life unknown ; 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. 

But think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 



THE TRAVELLER. 81 

Far from niy bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure : 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
vThat those that think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching clanger warms : 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free, 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home, — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power ; 



82 THE TRAVELLER. 

And thus, polluting honor in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 
Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern Depopulation in her train, 
And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
In barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay 'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main, 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
"And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, 
"Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I stray 'd from pleasure and repose, 



THE TRAVELLER. 

To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ? 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



DESERTED VILLAGE. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Dear Sir. — I can have no expectations, in an address 
of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish 
my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am 
ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I 
may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few 
have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, 
therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I 
must be indulged at present in following my affections. The 
only dedication I ever made, was to my brother, because I 
loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. 
Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 

How far you may be pleased with the versification and 
mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to 
inquire : but I know you will object (and, indeed, several of 
our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the 
depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- 
orders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own im- 
agination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer, 
than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I 
have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for 
these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 85 

and that all my views and inquiries have led rne to believe 
those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But 
this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the 
country be depopulating or not : the discussion would take 
up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indif- 
ferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when 
I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh 
against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect 
the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or 
thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as 
one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wisdom 
of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, however, 
I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue 
to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many 
vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been un- 
done. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the 
other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty 
and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. 
I am, dear Sir, 
Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 

Oliver Goldtmith. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd ; 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

* The locality of this poem is supposed to be Lissoy, near 
Ballymahan, where the poet's brother Henry had his living. As 
usual in such cases, the place afterwards became the fashionable 
resort of poetical pilgrims, and paid the customary penalty of fur- 
nishing relics for the curious. The hawthorn bush has been con- 
verted into snuff-boxes, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical 
virtuosi. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 87 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey 'd ; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 

And slights of art and feats of strength went round ; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports, like these 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ! 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more the grassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries : 



88 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sunk are thy bovvers in shapless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Ea-iVfar away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. . 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 89 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
"'In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill, 
Around ray fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return and die at home at last. ^> 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! 
Plow blest is he who crowns in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end,- 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 



90 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; _ 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made./ 
But now the sounds of population fail ; ' 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, I 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 91 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
/A man he was to all the country dear, 

V And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
•More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. ; 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 

..Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe : 
Careless their merits or their fautls to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 



92 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
"Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd, with endearing Avile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay, 
There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laugh'd, with countefeited glee, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 93 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew, 
'T was certain he could write and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
-For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, retired, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of draws by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 



94 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendors ! Could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 95 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'T is yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth: 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : — 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, 
In barren splendor feebly waits its fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms are frail— 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 



96 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd : 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Tiiose fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' wo. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 97 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies : 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest : 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 

Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex-world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama * murmurs to their wo. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
' Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 

* The Altama ( or Altamaha ) is a river in the province of 
Georgia, United States. 



98 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; m 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave : 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms : 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 99 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, Down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
• E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand. 
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
And kind connubial Tenderness, are there ; 
And Piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 



100 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
"Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE HERMIT; 

A BALLAD. 



The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's 
Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. 

Sir, — As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper 
controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as con- 
cise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I 
recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book 
was a good one, and I think so still. I said I was told by the 
bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, 
I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough 
to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a 
ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious 
Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance be- 
tween the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad 
is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; 
and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) 
told me with his usual good humor, the next time I saw him, 
that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shak- 
speare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cen- 

* Friar of Orders Gray. Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, book 
2, No. 17. ^ 



102 THE HERMIT. 

to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty an- 
ecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not 
for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the 
public should never have known that he owes me the hint 
of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his frendship and learning 
for communications of a much more important nature. — I 
am, Sir, yours, etc. Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE HERMIT. 



' Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way, 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

* For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow, 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem length'ning as I go.' 

* Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 

* To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

6 Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

* Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 



104 THE HERMIT. 

6 No flocks that range the valley free, 

To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

< But from the mountain's grassy side, 
A guiltless feast I bring ; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

* Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.' 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master's care ; 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
And cheer'd his pensive guest : 



THE HERMIT. 105 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gaily press'd and smiled ; 
And, skill'd in legendary lore, 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

♦ 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 

With answering care oppress'd : 
And, ? Whence unhappy youth/ he cried, 

1 The sorrows of thy breast ? 

' From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

Or unregarded love ? * 

* Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things, 

More trifling still than they. 

' And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep ? 



106 THE HERMIT. 

' And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

6 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex/ he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. * 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confessed, 

A maid in all her charms. 

And, ' Ah ! forgive a stranger rude — 
A wretch forlorn,' she cried : 

* Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

c But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

' My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he : 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 

He had but only me. 



THE HERMIT. 107 

* To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came, 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 
And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 

* Each hour a mercenary crowd 

With richest proffers strove ; 
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 

' In humble, simplest habit clad, ^ 

No wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

But these were all to me. /y 

i And when, beside me in the dale, 

He caroll'd lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the' gale, 

And music to the grove. * 

The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of heaven refined, 
Could nought of purity display 

To emulate his mind. 

* The dew, the blossom on the tree, 

With charms inconstant shine ; 
Their charms were his, but, wo to me, 
Their constancy was mine. 

* This stanza was preserved by Eichard Archdale, Esq., a mem- 
ber of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, 
and was first inserted after the author's death. 



108 THE HERMIT. 

1 For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain ; 

1 Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

* But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay ; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
And stretch me where he lay. 

i And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.' 

* Forbid it, Heaven! ' the Hermit cried, 

And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide - 
' Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 

1 Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

' Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that's mine. 



THE HERMIT. 109 

1 No, never from this hour to part 

We'll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too.' 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON * 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 

regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: 
I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view, 
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn, 

* The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated 
from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from 
Horace, Lib. i'i. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier, 
Sat. 10. 



THE HATJNCH OP VENISON. Ill 

It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* 
To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Munroe's ; 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
"With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 

when. 
There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— ff, 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef; 
There's my countryman, Higgins — oh, let him alone 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone : 
But, hang it ! to poets who seldom can eat 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt ; 
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
An acquaintance — a friend, as he call'd himself — 

enter'd ; 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me, — 
' What have you got here ? — Why, this is good eating ! 
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? ' 
1 Why, whose should it be ? ' cried I, with a flounce, 
i I get these things often' — but that was a bounce : 
' Some lords, my acquaintance^ that settle the nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 

* Lord Clare's nephew. 



112 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

1 If that be the case, then/ cried he, very gay, 

* I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
]STo words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; 
"We'll have Johnson, and Burke, — all the wits will be 

there : 
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
"We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end : 
No stirring, I beg — my dear friend, — my dear friend ! 
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And * nobody with me at sea but myself; ' * 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
(A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine), 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 

* For I knew it/ he cried, 'both eternally fail, 

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry 
Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 113 

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : * 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew : 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.' 
While thus he described them, by trade and by name, 
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle, a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
But what vex'd me most was that d ' d Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 

brogue ; 
And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've ate of your tripe till I'm ready to burst/ 
1 The tripe ! ' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
* I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 

* An eminent London brewer, M. P. for the borough of South - 
wark, at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest. 

10* 



114 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all/ 

* ho ! ' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice. 

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 

There's a pasty.' — i A pasty ! ' repeated the Jew, 

' I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 

' What the deil mon, a pasty ! ' re-echoed the Scot, 

' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 

' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out ; 

< We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about. 

While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 

With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : 

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 

Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 

But we quickly found out — for who could mistake her ? — 

That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 

And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven 

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 

Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 

And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplaced, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own. 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



RETALIATION. 



Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the 
St. James's Coffeehouse. One day, it was proposed to write 
epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished 
subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at 
their next meeting, produced the following poem. 

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
If our landlord * supplies us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish ; 
Our Dean f shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burke % shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
Our Will § shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
And Dick || with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 

* The master of the St. James's Coffeehouse, where the Doctor 
and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally 
dined. 

t Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bish- 
op of Kill aloe. 

% The Bight Hon. Edmund Burke. 

§ Mr. William Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway, 
and member for Bedwin. 

|| Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 



116 RETALIATION. 

Our Cumberland's * sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas t is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Garrick's j a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
That Ridge § is anchovy, and Reynolds || is lamb ; 
That Hickey's % a capon, and, by the same rule, 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various — at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 

=*Mr. Kichard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, The 
Jeio, and other dramatic works. 

t Doctor Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop 
of Salisbury, was himself a natvie of Scotland, and obtained con- 
siderable reputation by his detection of the forgeries of his coun- 
trymen, Lauder and Bower. 

J David Garrick, Esq. 

§ Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish 
bar. 

|| Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

If An eminent attorney. 



RETALIATION. 117 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 
To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining : f 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge disobedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't : 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

* Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord 
Sydney. 

t Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, though distinguished by 
all the force of reasoning and eloquence of their highly-gifted 
author, were not always listened to with patience by his brother 
members, who not unfrequently took the opportunity of retiring 
to dinner when he rose to speak. To this circumstance, which 
procured for the orator the sobriquet of the Dinner Bell, allusion is 
here made. 



118 RETALIATION. 

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! * 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball I 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old Nick. 
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few ? 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 

* Mr. Richard Burke having slightly fractured an arm and a 
leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these acci- 
dents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking jests upon 
other people. 



RETALIATION. 119 

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines: 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds * shall be pious, our Kenricks f shall lecture ; 
Macpherson j write bombast, and call it a style ; 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : 
New Lauders § and Bowers || the Tweed shall cross over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 
' Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 

* The Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery. 

f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the 
title of ' The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, 
of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson observed 
of him, ' He is one of the many who have made themselves public, 
without making themselves known.' 

J James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style, 
wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 

§ William Lauder, who, by interpolating certain passages from 
the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise 
Lost, endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from 
the modern Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this 
imposture, and extorted from the author a confession and apology. 

|| Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History 
of the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas convict- 
ed Bower of gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of 
his history. 



120 RETALIATION. 

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 

As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine, 

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 

Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 

Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread, 

And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 

'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 

With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 

He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 

If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 

Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, 

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfalls f so grave, 

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
While he was be-E,oscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 

* Mr. Hugh Kelley, originally a staymaker, afterwards a news- 
paper editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister. 

t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 



RETALIATION. 121 

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kelleys above. 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye : 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 

hearing : 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 

stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity 
of using an ear-trumpet in company. 
* 11 ' 



122 RETALIATION. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher 
received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord * from a friend 
of the late Dr. Goldsmith. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, 
Though he merrily lived, he is now a. grave man : f 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; , 

A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will ; 
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surejy no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content if ' the table he set in a roar : ' 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
Yet happy if Woodfall % confess'd him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 

^Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 

f Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Gold- 
smith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without 
being infected with the itch of punning. 

% Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 



RETALIATION. 1 23 

And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 

Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 

Cross Readings, Ship News, and Mistakes of the Press.* 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit ; 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
* Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse.' 



THE 
DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 



Secluded from domestic strife, 

Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 

A fellowship at twenty-five 

Made him the happiest man alive ; 

He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, 

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
Could any accident impair? 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 

Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 
Or Flavia been content to stop 

* Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with hu- 
morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. 



124 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ! 

Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 

Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 

Oh ! — but let exclamation cease. 

Her presence banished all his peace ; 

So with decorum all things carried, 

Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night ? 
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 
Or draw the curtains closed around ? 
Let it suffice that each had charms : 
He clasped a goddess in his arms ; 
And though she felt his usage rough, 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
The second brought its transports too ; 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss : 
But, when a twelvemonth passed away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
But still the worst remain'd behind, — 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
And, just as humor rose or fell, 
By turns a slattern or a belle. 
'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
Half naked, at a ball or race ; 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 125 

But when at home, at board or bed, 

Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 

Could so much beauty condescend 

To be a dull, domestic friend ? 

Could any curtain-lectures bring 

To decency so fine a thing ! 

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; 

By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 

Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 

Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee ; 

The squire and captain to<5k their stations, 

And twenty other near relations : 

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 

A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 

While' all their hours w T ere pass'd between 

Insulting repartee and spleen. 

Thus, as her faults each day were known, 
He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
He fancies every vice she shews, 
Or thins her lips, or points her nose : 
Whenever rage or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth, how w r ild her eyes ! 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
And, though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
As each a different way pursues, 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promised to hold them on for life, 
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
11* 



126 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Withers the beauty's transient flower,-— 
Lo ! the small pox, with horrid glare, 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
In vain she tries her paste and creams 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
Her country beaux and city cousins, 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
The squire himself was seen to yield, 
And e'en the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown, 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old : 
With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean ; 
No more presuming on her sway, 
She learns good nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



THE GIFT. 127 

THE GIFT * 

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 

Dear mercenary beauty, 
What annual offering shall I make 

Expressive of my duty? 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 

Should I at once deliver, 
Say, would the angry fair one prize 

The gift, who slights the giver? 

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 

My rivals give — and let 'em: 
If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 

I'll give them — when I get 'em. 

I'll give — but not the full-blown rose, 

Or rose-bud more in fashion ; 
Such short-lived offerings but disclose 

A transitory passion — 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 

Not less sincere than civil, — 
I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid ! -— 

I'll give thee — to the Devil ! 

* Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet. 



128 AN ELEGY ON TilE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAI) DOG. 

Good people all, of e\ery sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 
And if you Jlnd it wondrous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 

Of whom the world might say, 
That still a godly race he ran, 

Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes : 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of 1ow t degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique^ began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wond'ring neighbors ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 120 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied : 

The man recover'd of the bite — 
The dog it was that died. 

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED* 

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 

Logicians have but ill defined 

As rational the human mind : 

Reason, they say, belongs to man, 

But let them prove it if they can. 

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 

By ratiocinations specious, 

Have strove to prove with great precision, 

With definition and division, 

Homo est ratione preditum ; 

But for rny soul I cannot credit 'em ; 

And must in spite of them maintain, 

That man and all his ways are vain ; 

And that this boasted lord of nature 

Is both a weak and erring creature ; 

*This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as 
a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in 
almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott 
has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's "Works. 



130 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

That instinct is a surer guide 

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 

And that brute beasts are far before 'em — 

Deus est anima brutorum. 

Who ever knew an honest brute 

At law his neighbor prosecute, 

Bring action for assault and battery ? 

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? 

O'er plains they ramble unconfined, 

No politics disturb their mind ; 

They eat their meals, and take their sport, 

Nor know who's in or out at court : 

They never to the levee go 

To treat as dearest friend a foe ; 

They never importune his grace, 

Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 

Nor undertake a dirty job, 

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.* 

Fraught with invective they ne'er go 

To folks at Paternoster Row : 

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 

No pickpockets, or poetasters, 

Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 

No single brute his fellow leads. 

Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 

Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 

Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 

Comes nearest us in human shape : 

Like man, he imitates each fashion, 

* Sir Eobert Walpole. 



A NEW SIMILE. 131 



And malice is his ruling passion : 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
Upon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
And to perform takes equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators ; 
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
Their masters' manners still contract, 
And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
Thus at the court, both great and small 
Behave alike, for all ape all. 

A NEW SIMILE. 

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 

Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
The modern scribbling kind, who write 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
Till reading — I forgot what day on — 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there 
To suit my purpose to a hair. 
But let us not proceed too furious, — 
First please to turn to god Mercurius ; 
You'll find him pictured at full length, 



132 A NEW SIMILE. 

In book the second, page the tenth ; 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
And now proceed we to our simile. 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right ; 
With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
A just comparison — proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air : 
And here my simile unites ; 
For in a modern poet's flights, 
I'm sure it may be justly said, 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand, 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly famed for several uses : 
To wit, — most wondrously endued, 
No poppy-water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its soporific virtue's such, 
Though ne'er so much awake before, 
That quickly they begin to snore ; 
Add, too, what certain writers tell, 

With this he drives men's souls to hell. 



A NEW SIMILE. 133 

Now, to apply, begin we then : — 
His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
The serpents round about it twin'd 
Denote him of the reptile kind, 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep; 
This" difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, 
Instead of others, damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript, 
Yet grant a word by way of postcript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing f 
In which all modern bards agree, 
Being each as great a thief as he. 
But e'en this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance : 
Our modern bards ! why, what a pox, 
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 



. DESCRIPTION 

OF AN 

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, 
12 



134: DESCRIPTION OF A BED-CHAMBER. ' 

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane : 

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; 

A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 

That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 

The royal game of goose was there in view, 

And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew ; 

The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 

And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. 

The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire , 

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 

And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board ; 

A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 

A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! * 



A PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS. A ROMAN 
KNIGHT, WHOM CiESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 

[Preserved by Macrobius.] 

What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, 
What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 

* The author has given, with a very slight alteration, a similar 
description of the alehouse, in the Deserted Village. 



135 



A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, 
"With honest thrift I held my honor dear : 
But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honor is no more ; 
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame : 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honor ends. 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 
MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 



The needy seldom pass'd her door, 
And always found her kind ; . 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 



136 



She strove the neighborhood to please 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satin new, 

With hoop of monstrous size, 
She never slumber'd in her pew — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has follow'd her — - 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore, 
For Kent Street well may say, 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
She had not died to-day. 



ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH 

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 

Sure, 'twas by Providence design'd, 
Rather in pity than in hate, 

That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
To save him from Narcissus' fate. 



STANZAS. 137 

THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 

John Trott was desired by two witty peers 

To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; 

' An't please you,' quoth John, i I'm not given to letters, 

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 

Howe'er from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces — 

As I hope to be saved ! — without thinking on asses.' 

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ? 

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 

And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 

While converts thank their poet in the skies. 

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON* 

Here lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 

Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
He led such a damnable life in this world, 

I don't think he'll wish to come back. 

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but 
having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Grow- 
ing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and be- 
came a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's 
Henriade. 

12* 



138 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 

Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 

O Wolfe ! * to thee a streaming flood of woe 
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

* Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose 
character he greatly admired. 



SONGS. 139 

A SONNET.* 

Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight, 
Myra, too sincere for feigning, 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection, 

Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
Had Myra followed my direction, 

She long had wanted cause of fear. 

SONG. 

From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
The wretch condemned with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SONG. 

From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 
O memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

* This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pavier. 



140 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 

And he who wants each other blessing, 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



SONG. 

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to Con- 
quer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the part of 
Miss Hardcastle, could not sing. 

Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me ; 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 

Offers to love, but' means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 

Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. 

She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY; 

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE 
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772. 

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. 

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
The distant climates and the savage shore; 
When wise astronomers to India steer, 
And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 141 

Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling : 

Our bard into the general spirit enters, 

And fits his little frigate for adventures. 

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, 

He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; 

Yet ere he lands he's ordered me before, 

To make an observation on the shore. 

Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! 

This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! 

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[Upper Gallery . 
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 
'em — [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em. 



Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — [Stage. 

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 

[ Tasting them. 
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear ; 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
Oh, there the people are — best keep my distance : 
Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance ; 
Our ship's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid her, 
His Honor is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure : lend him aid, 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What ! no reply to promises so ample ? 
I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 



142 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTEKS.* 

What ! five long acts — and all to make us wiser ! 

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 

Had she consulted me, she should have made 

Her moral play a speaking masquerade : 

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage, 

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 

My life on't this had kept her play from sinking, 

Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 

What if /give a masquerade? — I will. 

But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing] I've got my 

cue: 
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, yovf, you. 
[ To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 
Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, 
Patriots in party-color'd suits that ride 'em : 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 

=*By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, 
ShaJcspeare Illustrated, etc. It was performed one night only at 
Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, 
as the cleverest female writer of her age. 



EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 143 

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure. 
Thus 't is with all : their chief and constant care 
Is to seem everything — but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
Who ftowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 
Looking, as who should say, Damme ! who 's afraid ? 

[Mimicking. 
Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, 
You '11 find his lionship a very lamb : 
Yon politician, famous in debate, 
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, 
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
If with a bribe his candor you attack, 
He bows, turns round, and whip — the man 's in black ! 
Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? 
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : 
Do you spare her, and I '11 for once spare you. 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY 

MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low, as beginning to speak. 
Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to 
the audience. 

Mrs. Buttchy. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What 's 

your business here ? 
Miss Cathy. The Epilogue. 
Mrs. B. The Epilogue ? 
Miss C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
Mrs. B. Sure, you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue ! 

1 bring it. 
Miss C. Excuse me, Ma'am. The author bid me 

sing it. 

Recitative. 

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 

Mrs. B. "Why, sure, the girl 's beside herself! an Ep- 
ilogue of singing ? 
A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. 
Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. 

Miss C. What if we leave it to the house ? 

Mrs. B. The house ? — Agreed. 



145 



Miss O. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And she whose party 's largest shall pro- 
ceed. 
And first, I hope you '11 readily agree 
I 've all the critics and the wits for me. 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
What ! no return ? I find too late, I fear, 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 

Miss G. I'm for a different set : — Old men, whose trade 
is 
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 

Recitative. 

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, 
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling : 

Air. — Cotillon. 

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, 
Pity take on your swain so clever, 
Who without your aid must die. 

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu ! 
Yes, I. must die, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 

Da Capo. 

Mrs. B. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; ' 
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, 
Who take a trip to Paris once a-year, 
13 



146 EPILOGUE. 

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,— 
Lend me your hands : O, fatal news to tell, 
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 

Miss C. Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed ! 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
Where are the chiels ? Ah, ah, I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 

Air. — A honnie young lad is my Jockey. 

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 

And be unco merry when you are but gay ; 

When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 

My voice shall be ready to carol away 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 

Mrs. B. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 
Make but of all your fortune one va toute : 
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
' I hold the odds — Done, done, with yoa, with you ! 9 
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
( My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case : ? 
Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
' I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner : ' 
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 

Air. — jBallinamony. 

Miss G. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
Assist me, I pray, in this woeful attack ; 
For — sure, I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack, 



147 



When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
For you are always polite and attentive, 
Still to amuse us inventive, 
And death is your only preventive ; 
Your hands and voices for me. 

Mrs. B. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? 

Miss O. And that our friendship may remain unbrok- 
en, 
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 

Mrs. B. Agreed. 

Miss C. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit 
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 

Exeunt, 

AN EPILOGUE 

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 

There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 

A treasury for lost and missing things, 

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 

And they who lose their senses, there may find them. 

But where 's this place, this storehouse of the age ? 

The Moon, says he ; but I affirm, the Stage — 

At least, in many things, I think I see 

His lunar and our mimic world agree : 

Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 

We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 



148 EPILOGUE. 

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
That mortals visit both to find their senses ; 
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither th' affected city dame advancing, 
Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing, 
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, 
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The Gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — 
As, l Damme, Sir ! ' and < Sir, I wear a sword ! ' 
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here comes the sons of scandal and of news, 
But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
Our Author 's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
Has he not seen how you your favor place 
On sentimental queens, and lords in lace ? 
Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment : the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
Yes, he 's far gone : and yet some pity fix, 
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP 
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 

Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your nonsense 
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
My pride forbids it ever should be said 
My heels eclipsed the honors of my head ; 
That I found humor in a piebald vest, 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

[Takes off his mask. 
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth : 
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the wo that weeps. 
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy J>rood 
Of fools pursuing and of fools pursued ! 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities : 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew? 
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
No — I will act — I'll vindicate the stage : 
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! 
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
Oh ! for a "Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
13* 



150 EPILOGUE. 

6 Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — soft — 

1 'twas but a dream.' 
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
'Twas thus that JEsop's stag, a creature blameless, 
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 
Once on the margin of a fountain stood 
And cavill'd at his image in the flood : 
4 The deuce confound,' he cries, ' these drumstick shanks, 
They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! 
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
My horns ! — I'm told that horns are the fashion now/ 

"Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, 
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew ; 
' Hoicks ! hark forward ! ' came thund'ring from behind : 
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ; 
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
He starts, he pdnts, he takes the circling maze : 
At length, his silly head, so prized before, 
Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
And at one bound he saves himself — like me. 

[ Taking a jump through the stage door. 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS * 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO-SQT7ABE, 

Thursday, the 20th day of February, 1772. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following may more properly be termed a com- 
pilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer 
in little more than two days : and may therefore rather 
be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of 
genius. 

In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to 
inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period 
of time equally short. 

Speakers — Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 

Singers — Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 

THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR VENTO. 

* This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of the Eng- 
lish Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend. Joseph 
Cradock, Esq., author of the tragedy of Zobeide. 



152 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. . 

OVERTURE— A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
AIR — TRIO. 

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise, 
And waken every note of woe ! 

When truth and virtue reach the skies 
'Tis ours to weep the want below. 

CHORUS. 

When truth and virtue, etc. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The praise attending pomp and power, 

The incense given to kings, 
Are but the trappings of an hour, 

Mere transitory things. 
The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
But when to pomp and power are join'd 
An equal dignity of the mind ; 

When titles are the smallest claim ; 
When wealth and rank, and noble blood, 
But aid the power of doing good : 

Then all their trophies last — and flattery turns to 
fame. 
Blest spirit, thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, 

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
And, wondering how their rage was born,. 



THRENODIA ATJGTJSTALIS. 153 

Request to be forgiven ! 
Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude, 

Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 

In vain, to charm the ravish'd sight, 
A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 

In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
A thousand sorrows urged thy end : 
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood, 
And purchased strength from its increased load. 
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
Virtue, on herself relying, 

Every passion hushed to rest, 
Loses every pain of dying 

In the hopes of being blest. 
Every added pang she suffers 

Some increasing good bestows, 
And every shock that malice offers 

Only rocks her to repose. 

SONG. BT A MAN — AFEETUOSO. 

Virtue, on herself relying, etc. 

to 
Only rocks her to repose. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate, 

Death, with its formidable band, 
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 



154 THRENODIA AUGTJSTALIS. 

Determined took their stand. 
Nor did the cruel ravagers design 

To finish all their efforts at a blow : 

But, mischievously slow, 
They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. 

With unavailing grief, 

Despairing of relief, 
Her weeping children round 

Beheld each hour 

Death's growing pow'r, 
And trembled as he frown'd. 
As helpless friends who view from shore 
The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 

While winds and waves their wishes cross, — 
They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
Not to assist, but to bewail 

The inevitable loss. 
Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, 
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 

SONG. BY A MAN — BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITTJOSO. 

When vice my dart and scythe supply, 
How great a King of Terrors I ! 
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 

Fall, round me fall, ye little things, 
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 155 



MAN SPEAKER. 



Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
As a safe inn where weary travellers, 
When they have journey'd through a world of cares, 
May put off life, and be at rest forever. 
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity : 
The preparation is the executioner. 
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, 
And is a terror only at a distance : 
For as the line of life conducts me on 
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair ; 
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
To take us in when we have drained the cup 
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
In that secure, serene retreat, 
Where all the humble, all the great, 

Promiscuously recline ; 
Where wildly huddled to the eye, 
The beggar's pouch, and prince's purple lie : 

May every bliss be thine ! 
And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
May cherubs welcome their expected guest ! 
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! 
May peace, that claim'd while here, thy warmest love, 
May blissful, endless peace be thine above ! 



156 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 



SONG. BY A WOMAN — AMOROSO. 



Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
Comforter of every woe, 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky ! 
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 



WOMAN SPEAKER. 



Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, 
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : 
Celestial like her bounty fell, 
"Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell ; 
Want pass'd for Merit at her door, 

Unseen the modest were supplied, 
Her constant pity fed the poor, — 

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine , 

And art exhausts profusion round, 
The tribute of a tear be mine, 

A simple song, a sigh profound. 
There faith shall come — a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ! 
And calm Religion shall repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree 
To blend their virtues while they think of thee. 



THRENODIA ATJGUSTALIS. 157 



-CHORUS POMPOSO. 



Let us — let all the world agree, 
To profit by resembling thee. 

PART II. 

OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
MAN SPEAKER. 

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream 

Reflects new glories on his breast, 
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, 

He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; 
Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 
While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 

While novelty, with cautious cunning, 

Through every maze of fancy running, 
From China borrows aid to deck the scene : 
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 

Forlorn, a rural band complain'd, 
All whom Augusta's bounty fed, 

All whom her clemency sustain'd ; 
The good old sire, unconscious of decay, 
The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray, 
The military boy, the orphan'd maid, 
The shatter'd veteran now first dismay'd, — 
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, 

And, as they view the towers of Kew, 
Call on their mistress — now no more — and weep. 
14 



158 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 



CHORUS. — AFFETUOSO, LARGO. 

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, 

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, 

Let all your echoes now deplore, 

That she who fomi'd your beauties is no more. 

MAN" SPEAKER. 

First of the train the patient rustic came, 

Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, 
Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 

With many a tear, and many a sigh between : 
' And where,' he cried, ' shall now my babes have bread, 

Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
jNo lord will take me now, my vigor fled, 

Nor can my strength perform what they require : 
Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare, 
A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
My noble mistress thought not so : 

Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
Unseen, though constant, used to flow, 

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew/ 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 

The pious matron next was seen, 

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, 

By use and daily meditation worn ; 

That decent dress, this holy guide, 

Augusta's cares had well supplied. 

' And ah ! ' she cries, all wobegone, 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 159 

' What now remains for me ? 
Oh ! where shall weeping want repair 

To ask for charity ? 
Too late in life for me to ask, 

And shame prevents the deed, 
And tardy, tardy are the times 

To succor, should I need. 
But all my wants, before I spoke, 

Were to my mistress known ; 
She still relieved, nor sought my praise, 

Contented with her own. 
But every day her name I'll bless, 

My morning prayer, my evening song, 
I'll praise her while my life shall last, 

A life that cannot last me long.' 

SONG. — BY A WOMAN. 

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, 

My morning and my evening song, 
And when in death my vows shall cease, 

My children shall the note prolong. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 

Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 

In nought entire — except his heart : 
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest, 
At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast : — 

Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
O'er Afric's sandy plain, 



160 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

And wide the tempest howling 

Along the billow'd main : 
But every danger felt before, 
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, 
Less dreadful struck me with dismay 
Than what I feel this fatal day. 
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; 
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, 
And lay my body where my limbs were lost. 

SONG. — BY A MAN. — BASSO SPIMTUOSO. 

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, 

To do thy memory right : 
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 

And wish th' avenging fight. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

In innocence and youth complaining, 

Next appear'd a lovely maid ; 
Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, 

Kindly came in beauty's aid : 
Every grace that grief dispenses, 

Every glance that warms the soul, 
In sweet succession charms the senses, 

While Pity harmonized the whole. 
* The garland of beauty,' 'tis thus she would say, 

1 No more shall my crook or my temples adorn ; 
I'll not wear a garland — Augusta's away — 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 161 

I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 

'Twas death — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
came. 
But ever, for ever, her image shall last, 

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom ; 
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 

SONG. BY A WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May 
No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; 

For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 
When she is removed, and shall never return ? 

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her torn*':. 

CHORUS. — ALTRO MODO. 

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, 
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb. 

14* 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO* 

THE PERSONS. 

First Jewish Prophet. First Chaldean Priest. 
Second Jewish Prophet. Second Chaldean Priest. 
Israelitish Woman. Chaldean Woman. 

Chorus of Youths and Virgins. 

Scene — The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep 
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, 
Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend, 
And turn to God, your father and your friend : 
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe, 
Our God alone is all we boast below. 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Our God is all we boast below, 
To him we turn our eyes ; 

* This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Goldsmith's 
own hand-writing, in the 8vo. edition of his Miscellaneous Works, 
published in 1820. 



the captivity: an oratario. 163 

And every added weight of wo 
Shall make our homage rise. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

And though no temple richly dress'd, 

Nor sacrifice is here, 
We'll make his temple in our breast, 

And offer up a tear. 

\The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS. 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 

And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes : 

Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride, 

Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide, 

Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd, 

Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, — 

How sweet those groves ! that plain how wondrous fair ! 

How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there ! 

Air. 
O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain ; 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

Hence, intruder most distressing ! 

Seek the happy and the free : 
The wretch who wants each other blessing, 

Ever wants a friend in thee. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Yet why complain ? What though by bonds confined ? 



1 64 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 

Should bonds repress the vigor of the mind ? 
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? 
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun 
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun? 
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? 
And should we mourn ? Should coward virtue fly, 
When vaunting folly lifts her head on high ? 
No ! rather let us triumph still the more, 
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 

Air. 

The triumphs that on vice attend 
Shall ever in confusion end ; 
The good man suffers but to gain, 
And every virtue springs from pain : 
As aromatic plants bestow 
No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, 
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 

The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; 

Triumphant music floats along the vale, 

Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 

The growing sound their swift approach declares — 

Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain withHheirs. 



the captivity: an oratorio. 165 

Enter Chaldean Priests attended. 
Air. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Come on, my companions, the triumph display, 

Let rapture the minutes employ ; 
The sun calls us out on this festival day, 

And our monarch partakes in the joy. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies, 

Both similar blessings bestow : 
The sun with his splendor illumines the skies, 

And our monarch enlivens below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN WOMAN. „ 

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure, 
Love presents the fairest treasure, 
Leave all other joys for me. 

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 

Or rather, love's delights despising, 
Haste to raptures ever rising, 

Wine shall bless the brave and free. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
Each to different joys exciting, 
Whither shall my choice incline. 



166 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 



SECOND PRIEST. 



I'll waste no longer thought in choosing, 
But, neither this nor that refusing, 
I'll make them both together mine. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, 
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? 
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? 
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? 
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along ; 
The day demands it : sing us Sion's song, 
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, 
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? 

Air. 

Every moment as it flows, 
Some peculiar pleasure owes : 

Come then, providently wise, 
Seize the debtor e'er it flies. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Think not to-morrow can repay 
The debt of pleasure lost to-day : 

Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
Can but pay its proper score. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, 
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, 
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 167 

Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? 
No, never ! may this hand forget each art 
That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, 
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, 
More formidable terrors shall prevail. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

"Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — 
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 

\Exeunt Chaldeans. 

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 

Can chains or tortures bend the mind 

On God's supporting breast reclined ? 

Stand fast, and let our tyrants see 

That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt 



ACT THE SECOND. 

Israelites and Chaldeans, as before. 
Air. 

■ FIRST PROPHET. 

O peace of mind, angelic guest, 
Thou soft companion of the breast, 
Dispense thy balmy store ! 



168 the captivity: an oratorio. 

Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
Till earth, receding from our eyes, 
Shall vanish as we soar ! 

FIKST PKIEST. 

No more. Too long has justice been delay'd, 
The king's commands must fully be obey'd ; 
Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
But if, rebellious to his high command, 
You spurn the favors offer'd from his hand, 
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind ; 
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 



Fierce is the tempest howling 

Along the furrow'd main, 
And fierce the whirlwind rolling 

O'er Afric's sandy plain. 

But storms that fly 

To rend the sky, 
Every ill presaging, 

Less dreadful show 

To worlds below 
Than angry monarchs raging. 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow : 
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 



the captivity: an oratorio. 169 

Forgive my sex's fears,. forgive my youth! 
Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain awaj. 

Air. 

Fatigued with life, yet loath to part, 

On hope the wretch relies ; 
And every blow that sinks the heart 

Bids the deluder rise. 

Hope, like the taper's gleamy light 

Adorns the wretch's way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare : 
I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise ; 
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. 
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre ; 
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN WOMAN. 

See the ruddy morning smiling, 
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
Streams along the valley straying. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

While these a constant revel keep, 
15 



170 the captivity: an oratorio. 

Shall reason only teach to weep ? 
Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
Nature, a better guide than you. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

But hold ! see, foremost of the captive choir, 
The master prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
Mark where he sits, with executing art, 
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart. 
See, how prophetic rapture fills his form, 
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm ! 
And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

From north, from south, from east, from west, 

Conspiring nations come : 
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ! 

Blasphemers, all be dumb. 

The tempest gathers all around, 

On Babylon it lies ; 
Down with her ! down, down to the ground 

She sinks, she groans, she dies. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, 

Before yon setting sun ; 
Serve her as she hath served the just! 

'Tis fix'd — it shall be done. 



the captivity: an oratorio. 171 



FIRST PRIEST. 



No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 

The king himself shall judge and fix their doom. 

Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 

Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 

To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes : 

See where dethroned your captive monarch lies, 

Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ; 

See where he mourns his friends and children slain. 

Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 

More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined. 



CHORUS Or ALL. 



Arise, all potent ruler, rise, 

And vindicate the people's cause, 

Till every tongue in every land 
Shall offer up unfeigned applause. 



ACT THE THIRD. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are pass'd, 

And our fix'd empire shall for ever last : 

In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, 

In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 

Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 

And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 



172 the captivity: an oratorio. 

Air. 

Coeval with man 
Our empire began, 
And never shall fall 
Till ruin shakes all. 
When ruin shakes all, 
Then shall Babylon fall. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, — 
A little while and all their power is fled. 
But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
That onward slowly bends along the plain ? 
And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear 
A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
The last remains of Judah's royal race : 
Fall'n is our king, and all our fears are o'er, 
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 



Ye wretches, who, by fortune's hate, 

In want and sorrow groan, 
Come, ponder his severer fate, 

And learn to bless your own. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 

Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
Like yours, his life began in pride, 

Like his, your lives shall end. 



THE captivity: an oratorio. 173 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, 
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; , 
Those eyeless orbs that shook with ghastly glare, 
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! 
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ? 
How long, how long, Almighty God of all, 
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ? 

Air, 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

As panting flies the hunted hind, 

"Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
And rivers through the valley wind, 

That stop the hunter's way : 

Thus we, O Lord, alike distress'd, 

For streams of mercy long ; 
Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd, 

And overwhelm the strong. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But whence that shout ? Good Heavens ! Amazement 

all! 
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : 
And now, behold, the battlements recline — 
O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
15* 



174 the captivity: an oratorio. 

CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 

Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust ; 

Thy vengeance be begun ; 
Serve them as they have served the just, 

And let thy will be done. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

All, all is lost ! The Syrian army fails, 
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. 
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along — 
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
And give repentance but an hour's delay. 

Air. 

FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST. 

O happy, who in happy hour 
To God their praise bestow, 

And own his all-consuming power 
Before they feel the blow ! 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Now, now 's our time ! ye wretches, bold and blind, 

Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 

Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before, 

Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more I 



O Lucifer, thou son of morn, 

Of Heaven alike, and man the foe, — 
Heaven, men, and all, 



THE captivity: an oratorio. 175 

Now press thy fall, 
And sink thee lowest of the low. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 

Thy streets forlorn, 

To wilds shall turn, 
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar 
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war ! 
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, 
And this way leads his formidable band. 
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, 
And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
He comes, pursuant to divine decree, 
To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 

Rise to transports past expressing, 

Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing, 

Comes to give the world repose. 

CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 

Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 

Love and pleasure in his train ; 
Comes to heighten every blessing, 
Comes to soften every pain. 



176 The captivity : an oratorio. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Hail to him with mercy reigning, 
Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 

Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
Only binds the willing heart. 

THE LAST CHORUS. 

But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend, 
Let praise be given to all eternity ; 

O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee ! 



LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE, OP APRIL 3, 1800. 

E'en have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, 
The budding rose its infant bloom display ; 

"When first its virgin tints unfold to view, 

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day : 

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, 

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek ; 

I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. 



THE 

GOOD-NATURED MAN: 

A COMEDY. 

This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at 
Covent Garden, January 29, 1768. It kept possession of the stage 
for nine nights, but was considered by the author's friends, not to 
have met with all the success it deserved. Dr. Johnson said it 
was the best comedy which had appeared since ' The Provoked 
Husband? and Burke estimated its merits still higher. 

PREFACE. 

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was 
strongly prepossessed in favor of the poets of the last age, and 
strove to imitate them. The term genteel comedy, was then 
unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an au- 
dience, than nature and humor, in whatever walks of life they 
were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes 
never imagined that more would be expected of him, and 
therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. 
Those who know anything of composition^ are sensible that in 
pursuing humor, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of 
the mean : I was even tempted to look for it in the master 
of a sponging-house ; but, in deference to the public taste — 
grown of late, perhaps, too delicate — the scene of the bailiffs 
was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to 
the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, 
the scene is here restored. The author submits it to the 
reader in his closet ; and hopes that too much refinement will 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

not banish humor and character from ours, as it has already- 
done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy- 
is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has 
not only banished humor and Moliere from the stage, but it 
has banished all spectators too. 

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the pub- 
lic, for the favorable reception which the Good-Natured Man 
has met with ; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kind- 
ness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any who 
shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed 
merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. 



DKAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Mr. Honeywood. 

Croaker. 

Lofty. 

Sir William Honeywood, 

Leontine. 

Jarvis. 

Butler. 

Bailiff. 

Dubardieu. 

Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Miss Richland. 
Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. 
Garnet. 
Landlady. 

Scene — London. 



THE 
GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. 

Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind 
Surveys the general toil of human kind, 
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, 
And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share 
This bustling season's epidemic care, 
Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 
Toss'd in one common storm with all the great ; 
Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit, 
When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 
The busy candidates for power and fame 
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same : 
Disabled both to combat or to fly, 
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply ; 
Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 
. As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 



180 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
1 This day, the powder'd curls and golden coat,' 
Says swelling Crispin, ' begg'd a cobbler's vote/ 
* This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries, 
< Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies.' 
The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe : 
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold. 
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
But confident of praise, if praise be due, 
Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene — an apartment in young honeywood's house. 
Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best 
excuse for every freedom. 

Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very an- 
gry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so 
worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my master. 
All the world loves him. 

Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; 
that is his fault. 

Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to 
him than you are, though he has not seen you since he 
was a child. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 181 

Sir William. What signifies this affection to me ? or 
how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every 
sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? 

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good-natured ; 
that he's too much every man's man ; that he laughs this 
minute with one, and cries the next with another : but 
whose instructions may he thank for all this ? 

Sir William. Not mine, sure. My letters to him 
during my employment in Italy, taught him only that 
philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. 

Jarvis. Faith, begging your honor's pardon, I'm sorry 
they taught him any philosophy at all : it has only served 
to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in a 
stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own 
part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm 
always sure he's going to play the fool. 

Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature 
arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, 
than his desire of making the deserving happy. 

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know ; but, to be 
sure, everybody has it that asks for it. 

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been 
now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and 
find them as boundless as his dissipation. 

Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other 
for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity ; and 
his trusting everybody, universal benevolence. It was 
but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he 
scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu — 
mu — munificence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. 
16 



182 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my last 
effort, though with very little hopes, to reclaim him. 
That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken up 
the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fic- 
titious distress, before he has plunged himself into real 
calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an 
officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends 
will come to his relief. 

Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thor- 
oughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me ; 
yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to fret 
him myself every morning these three years ; but instead 
of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he 
does to his hair dresser. 

Sir William. We must try him once more, however, 
and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execution : 
and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your means, I 
can have frequent opportunities of being about him with- 
out being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any 
man's good-will to others should produce so much neglect 
of himself, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch 
his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some 
faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce 
weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. [Exit. 

Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. 
It is not without reason, that the world allows thee to be 
the best of men. But here comes his hopeful nephew 
— the strange, good-natured, foolish, open-hearted — And 
yet, all his faults are such, that one loves him still the 
better for them. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 183 

-Enter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
friends this morning ? 

Jarvis. You have no friends. 

Honeywood. Well, from my acquaintance then ? 

Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards 
of compliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; this 
from your mercer ; and this from the little broker in Crook- 
ed-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble 
to get back the money you borrowed. 

Honeywood. That I don't know ; but I am sure we 
were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 

Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 

Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing. 

Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to 
the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I be- 
lieve they would stop his mouth for a while at least. 

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths 
in the mean time ? Must I be cruel, because he happens 
to be importunate ; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them 
to insupportable distress ? 

Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to re- 
lieve yourself — yourself. Haven't I reason to be out 
of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and 
sevens ? 

Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for being 
out of your senses, I ]iope you'll allow that I'm not quite 
unreasonable for continuing in mine. 

Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your present 
situation that could do so. Every thing upon the waste. 



184 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

There 's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone already, 
and upon the point of being given to your rival. 

Honeywood. I 'm no man's rival. 

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit 
you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but 
pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken 
servants that your kindness has made unfit for any other 
family. 

Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion for 
being in mine. 

Jarvis. Sob! What will you have done with him 
that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the 
fact — I caught him in the fact. 

Honeywood. In the fact? If so, I really think that 
we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 

Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; 
we 11 hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the 
family. 

Honeywood. No, Jarvis : it *s enough that we have 
lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of a 
fellow creature ! 

Jarvis. Very fine ! well, here was the footman just 
now, to complain of the butler : he says he does most 
work, and ought to have most wages. 

Honeywood. That *s but just ; though perhaps here 
comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarvis. Ay, it 's the way with them all, from the scul- 
lion to the privy-councillor. If they have a bad master, 
they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have a good mas- 
ter, they keep quarrelling with one another. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 185 

Enter Butler, drunk. 

Butler. Sir, I '11 not stay in the family with Jonathan ; 
you must part with him, or part with me, that 's the ex — 
ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 

Honeyivood. Full and explicit enough. But what 's 
his fault, good Philip ? 

Butler. Sir, he 's given to drinking, sir, and I shall 
have my morals corrupted by keeping such company. 

Honeywood. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 

Jarvis. Oh, quite amusing. 

Butler. I find my wine 's a-going, sir ; and liquors 
do n't go without mouths, sir — I hate a drunkard, sir. 

Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I '11 hear you upon 
that another time ; so go to bed now. 

Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 

Butler. Begging your honor's pardon, and begging 
your pardon, master Jarvis, I '11 not go to bed nor to the 
devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cel- 
lar. I forgot, your honor, Mr. Croaker is below. I came 
on purpose to tell you. 

Honeywood. Why did n't you show him up, block- 
head. 

Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 
Up or down, all 's one to me. [Exit. 

Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this 
house from morning till night. He comes on the old 
affair, I suppose. The match between his son, that 's just 
returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young lady 
he 's guardian to. 

Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my 
16* 



186 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head that 
I can persuade her to what I please. 

Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well as 
she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that would 
set all things to rights again. 

Honeywood. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, 
no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than 
friendship — mere friendship. That she is the most love- 
ly woman that ever warmed the human heart with desire, 
I own : but never let me harbor a thought of making her 
unhappy, by a connection with one so unworthy her mer- 
its as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve 
her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her happi- 
ness, though it destroys my own. 

Jarvis. "Was ever the like ? I want patience. 

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed 
with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ? who, though 
both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in 
their dispositions, you know. 

Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very 
reverse of each other : she all laugh, and no joke ; he 
always complaining, and never sorrowful — a fretful poor 
soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four- 
and-twenty — 

Honeywood. Hush, hush ! he 's coming up, he 11 hear 
you. 

Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell — 
"Honeywood. Well, well; go, do. 

Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief — a 
coffin and cross-bones — a bundle of rue — a sprig of 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 187 

deadly nightshade — a — (Honeywood, stopping his mouth, 
at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 

Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not entire- 
ly wrong. There is something in my friend Croaker's 
conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth is 
an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a strong- 
er effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop — Mr. 
Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and 
many of them. How is this ? you look most shockingly 
to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does not 
affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather continues 
— I say nothing ; but God send we be all better this day 
three months ! 

Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I 
own, not in your apprehensions. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what 
weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours ? 
taxes rising and trade falling : money flying out of the 
kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know, at this' 
time, no less than a hundred and twenty-seven Jesuits 
between Charing Cross and Temple Bar. 

Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
me, I should hope. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom 
they pervert, in a country that has scarce any religion to 
lose ? I 'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. 

Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I 
assure you. 



188 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether 
they be perverted or no ? The women in my time were 
good for something. I have seen a lady drest from top 
to toe in her own manufactures formerly ; but now-a-days, 
the devil a thing of their own manufacture 's about them, 
except their faces. 

Honeywood. But, however these faults may be prac- 
tised abroad, you don 't find them at home, either with 
Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland ? 

Croaker. The best of them will never be canonized 
for a saint when she 's dead. — By the by, my dear friend, 
I do n't find this match between Miss Richland and my 
son much relished, either by one side or t' other. 

Honeyioood. I thought otherwise. 

Croaker. Ah ! Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine 
serious advice to the young lady might go far: I know 
she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding. 

Honeywood. But would not that be usurping an au- 
thority, that more properly belongs to yourself ? 

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my 
authority at home. People think, indeed, because they 
see me come out in the morning thus, with a pleasant face, 
and to make my friends merry, that all 's well within. 
But I have cares that would break a heart of stone. My 
wife has so encroached upon every one of my privileges, 
that I 'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own 
house. 

Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your side 
might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do 
rouse sometimes ; but what then ? always haggling and 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 189 

haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, before 
his wife is tired of losing the victory. 

Honeywood. It 's a melancholy consideration, indeed, 
that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxie- 
ties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet 
to new disquietudes. 

Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 
words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week before he 
made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I 
never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. 
Ah ! there was merit neglected for you ; and so true a 
friend ! we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he 
never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 

Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to commit 
so rash an action at last ? 

Croaker. I do n't know : some people were malicious 
enough to say it was keeping company with me ; because 
we used to meet now and then, and open our hearts to 
each other. To be sure, I loved to hear him talk, and he 
loved to hear me talk ; poor dear Dick ! He used to say 
that Croaker rhymed to joker ; and so we used to laugh 
— Poor Dick ! [ Going to cry. 

Honeywood. His fate affects me. 

Croaker. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and 
undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should 
watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep as 
we do. 

Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that part 
of life which is to come, by that which we have past, the 
* prospect is hideous. 



190 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a frow- 
ard child, that must be humored and coaxed a little till it 
falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 

Honeywood. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the 
vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We 
wept when we came into the world, and every day tells 
us why. 

Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfac- 
tion to be miserable with you. My son Leontine shan't 
lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I '11 just step 
home for him. I am willing to show him so much serious- 
ness in one scarce older than himself. And what if I 
bring my last letter to the Gazetteer, on the increase and 
progress of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise 
you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming 
round to pay us another visit — from London to Lisbon 
— from Lisbon to the Canary Islands — from the Canary 
Islands to Palmyra — from Palmyra to Constantinople, 
and so from Constantinople back to London again. [Exit. 
Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves the 
utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three 
days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is worse than death 
itself. And yet, when I consider my own situation — a 
broken fortune, a hopeless passion, friends in distress, the 

wish, but not the power to serve them 

[Pausing and sighing. 

Enter Butler. 
Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker and 
Miss Richland; shall I show them up? — but they're 
showing up themselves. [Exit. * 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 191 

Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 

Miss Richland. You 're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honey- 
wood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowa- 
ger, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. And 
then so curious in antiquities ! herself, the most genuine 
piece of antiquity in the whole collection. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good hu- 
mor : I know you '11 pardon me. 

Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as if he 
had taken a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if 
Richland here can pardon you, I must. 

Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, madam, 
that I have particular reasons for being disposed to re- 
fuse it. 

Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, do n't 
be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honey- 
wood's long friendship and mine should be misunderstood. 

Honeyivood. There 's no answering for others, madam. 
But I hope you '11 never find me presuming to offer more 
than the most delicate friendship may readily allow. 

Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
tribute from you, than the most passionate professions 
from others. 

Honeyivood. My own sentiments, madam : friendship 
is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, an 
abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 
~ Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I know 



192 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship, 
than Mr. Honey wood. 

Mrs. Croaker. And, indeed, I know nobody that has 
more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, 
Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise him in all 
companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she 's his pro- 
fessed admirer. 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favorite there. But is she 
seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked 
of? 

Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
praise a lady's beauty, till she 's beginning to lose it. 

[Smiling. 

Mrs. Croaker. But she 's resolved never to lose it, it 
seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill improves 
in making the artificial one... Well, nothing diverts me 
more than one of those fine, old, dressy things, who thinks 
to conceal her age by every where exposing her person 5 
sticking herself up in the front of a side-box ; trailing 
through a minuet at Almack's, and then, in the public 
gardens — looking, for all the world, like one of the paint- 
ed ruins of the place. 

Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While 
you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of 
youth, there ought to be some to carry on a useful com- 
merce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. 

Miss Richland. But, then, the mortifications they 
must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. I 
have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair- 
dresser, when all the fault was her face. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 193 

Honeywood. And yet, I '11 engage, has carried that 
face at last to a very good market. This good-natured % 
town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit every 
age from fifteen to fourscore. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, you 're a dear good-natured crea- 
ture. But you know you're engaged with us this morn- 
ing upon a strolling party. I want to show Olivia the 
town, and the things : I believe I shall have business for 
you the whole day. 

Honeyivood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put off. 

Mrs. Croaker. What! with my husband? then I'm 
resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. 
You know I never laugh so much as with you. 

Honeyivood. Why, if I must, I must. I '11 swear you 
have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, 
and I '11 find laugh, I promise you. We '11 wait for the 
chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 

Enter Leontine and Olivia. 

Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My 
dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of 
sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful as they are ! 

Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, 
when I have so many terrors to oppress me ? The fear 
of being detected by this family, and the apprehensions 
of a censuring world, when I must be detected 

Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say ? At 
worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a merce- 
nary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you formed 
a resolution of flying with the man of your choice ; that 
17 



194 TIIE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

you confided in his honor, and took refuge in my father's 
* house, — the only one where yours could remain without 
censure. 

Olivia. But consider, Leon tine, your disobedience, 
and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France to bring 
home a sister, and, instead of a sister, bringing home 

Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest of the 
family, when she comes to be known. 

Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 

Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper 
to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been 
with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and you 
find every creature in the family takes you for her. 

Olivia. But may n't she write, may n't her aunt write ? 

Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
sister's letters are directed to me. 

Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for 
whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a 
suspicion ? 

Leontine. There, there 's my master-stroke. I have 
resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have 
consented to go with my father to make her an offer of 
my heart and fortune. 

Olivia. Your heart and fortune ? 

Leontine. Do n't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia 
think so meanly of my honor, or my love, as to suppose 
I could ever hope for happiness from any but her ? No, 
my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the 
delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I 
only offer Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 195 

refuse ; as I am confident, that, without knowing it, her 
affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 

Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You '11 excuse my appre- 
hensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the 
balance 

Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. 
However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compli- 
ance with my father's command ; and perhaps, upon her 
refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. 

Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I 
own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. I 
consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as 
due only to me. This is folly, perhaps ; I allow it ; but 
it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an 
impression on one's own heart may be powerful over that 
of another. 

Leontine. Do n't, my life's treasure, do n't let us make 
imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real 
ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Rich- 
land should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it 
can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Where have you been, boy ? I have been 
seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has been say- 
ing such comfortable things ! Ah ! he 's an example in- 
deed. Where is he ? I left him here. 

Leontine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear 
him too, in the next room : he 's preparing to go out with 
the ladies. 

Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or 



196 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

my ears ; I 'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunned 
with the loudness of his laugh. Was there ever such a 
transformation ! (a laugh behind the scenes, Croaker mim- 
ics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes ; a plague take their 
balderdash ! yet I could expect nothing less, when my 
precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, I 
believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews 
of a tabernacle. 

Leontine. Since you find so many objections to a wife, 
sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending one to 
me ? 

Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that 
Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the family ; 
one may find comfort in the money, whatever one does in 
the wife. 

Leontine. But, sir, though in obedience to your desire, 
I am ready to marry her, it may be possible she has no 
inclination to me. 

Croaker. I '11 tell you once for all how it stands. A 
good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a 
claim upon government, which my good friend, Mr. Lofty, 
assures me the Treasury will allow. One half of this 
she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in case she refuses to 
marry you. So, if she rejects you, we seize half her for- 
tune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine 
girl into the bargain. 

Leontine. But, sir, if you will listen to reason 

Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell 
you, I 'm fixed, determined — so now produce your rea- 
sons. When I am determined, I always listen to reason, 
because it can then do no harm. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 197 

Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual choice was 
the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 

Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual 
choice. She has her choice, — to marry you or lose half 
her fortune; and you have your choice, — to marry her, 
or pack out of doors without any fortune at all. 

Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more indul- 
gence. 

Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that never 
disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He 's 
a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. 
But he shan't, I tell you he shan't ; for you shall have 
your share. 

Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you 'd be convinced, that I 
can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, which 
is taken from his. 

Croaker. Well, well, it 's a good child, so say no more ; 
but come with me, and we shall see something that will 
give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise you, — old 
Ruggins, the currycomb maker, lying in state ; I am told 
he makes a very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin 
prodigiously. He was an intimate friend of mine, and 
these are friendly things we ought to do for each other. 

\_Exeunt 
17* 



198 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene — Croaker's House. 
Miss Richland, Garnet. 

Miss Richland. Olivia not his sister! Olivia not 
Leontine's sister? You amaze me. 

Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all 
from his own servant: I can get anything from that 
quarter. 

Miss Richland. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. 

Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead 
of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been 
there with her aunt these ten years, he never went farther 
than Paris ; there he saw and fell in love with this young 
lady — by the by, of a prodigious family. 

Miss Richland. And brought her home to my guardi- 
an as his daughter ? 

Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 
don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what 
a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceived me. 
And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — Would you 
believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets ; and yet the 
sly cheat concealed all this from me ! 

Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I do n't much 
blame her : she was loath to trust one with her secrets, 
that was so very bad at keeping her own. 

Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the young 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 199 

gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious propo- 
sals. My guardian and he are to be here presently, to 
open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my 
fortune if I refuse him. 

Garnet. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as you 
are, in love with Mr. Honey wood, madam 

Miss Richland. How ! idiot, what do you mean ? In 
love with Mr. Honey wood ! Is this to provoke me ? 

Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : I 
meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be mar- 
ried — nothing more. 

Miss Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to re- 
ceive them : I 'm resolved to accept their proposal with 
seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so 
throw the refusal at last upon them. 

Garnet. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so in- 
nocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 

Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence 
to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have taught 
me against themselves. 

Garnet. Then you 're likely not long to want employ- 
ment, for here they come, and in close conference. 

Enter Croaker and Leontine. 

Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon 
the point of putting to the lady so important a question. 

Croaker. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; you 're 
so plaguy shy, that one would think you had changed 
sexes. I tell you we must have the half or the whole. 



200 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Come, let me see with what spirit you begin : Well, why 
do n't you ? Eh ! What ? Well then, I must, it seems — 
Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you guess at our busi- 
ness ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that 
nearly concerns your happiness. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be 
pleased with any thing that comes recommended by you. 

Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening ? 
Why do n't you begin, I say ? [ To Leo?itine. 

Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam — 
has some intentions — -hem — of explaining an affair, — 
which — himself can best explain, madam. 

Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my 
son ; it 's all a request of his own, madam. And I will 
permit him to make the best of it. 

Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam : my 
father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but 
himself shall deliver. 

Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never 
be brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, you see be- 
fore you one that loves you — one whose whole happi- 
ness is all in you. 

Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your re- 
gard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my duty. 

Croaker. That 's not the thing, my little sweeting — 
My love ! no, no, another guess lover than I : there he 
stands, madam ; his very looks declare the force of his 
passion — Call up a look, you dog ! (Aside.) But then, 
had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies 
and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and sometimes 
absent—— 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 201 

Miss Richland. I fear, sir, he 's absent now ; or such 
a declaration would have come most properly from him- 
self. 

Croaker. Himself! Madam, he would die before he 
could make such a confession ; and if he had not a chan- 
nel for his passion through me, it would ere now have 
drowned his understanding. 

Miss Richland. I must grant, sir, there are attractions 
in modest diffidence above the force of words. A silent 
address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. 

Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other 
language ; silence is become his mother-tongue. 

Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks 
very powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall be thought 
too forward in making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr. 
Leontine ? 

Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, 
if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll 
try. (Aside.) Do n't imagine from my silence, madam, 
that I want a due sense of the honor and happiness in- 
tended me. My father, madam, tells me your humble 
servant is not totally indifferent to you — he admires you : 
I adore you ; and when we come together, upon my soul, 
I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. 
James's. 

Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you thought 
as you speak, sir . 

Leontine. Doubt my sincerity, madam? By your 
dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory ? 
ask cowards if they covet safety 

Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. . 



202 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health ? ask 
misers if they love money ? ask 

Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's 
come over the boy ? What signifies asking, when there's 
not a soul to give you an answer ? If you would ask to 
the purpose, ask this lady's consent to make you happy. 

Miss Richland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon ardor 
almost compels me — forces me to comply. And yet I'm 
afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; 
won't you, Mr. Leontine ? 

Leontine. Confusion! {Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked of 
force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as com- 
pulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I will still 
be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. 

Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. 
It 's a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives 
consent. 

Leontine. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, 
the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 

Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you 
know, blockhead, that girls have always a round-about 
way of saying yes before company ? So get you both 
gone together into the next room, and hang him that in- 
terrupts the tender explanations. Get you gone, I say 5 
I '11 not hear a word. 

Leontine. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 

Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I '11 beg leave to in- 
sist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp! But I 
do n't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his mother. 

[Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine, 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 203 

Enter Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, 
my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 

Croaker. I '11 hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 

Mrs. Croaker. A letter ; and as I knew the hand, I 
ventured to open it. 

Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking 
open my letters should give me pleasure ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Pooh ! it 's from your sister at Lyons, 
and contains good news : read it. 

Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That 
sister of mine has some good qualities ; but I could never 
teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it con- 
tains. 

Croaker (reading). 

6 Dear Nick, — An English gentleman, of large for- 
tune, has for some time made private, though honorable, 
proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other 
tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any 
of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such 
good offers do n't come every day, your own good sense, 
his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce 
you to forgive her. Yours ever, 

Rachael Croaker.' 

My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large 
fortune! This is good news indeed. My heart never 
foretold me of this. And yet, how slily the little baggage 
has carried it since she came home ; not a word on 't to 



204 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw some- 
thing she wanted to conceal. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their 
amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be 
public, I'm resolved. 

Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most 
foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman 
to think of the most serious part of the nuptial engage- 
ment. 

Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of 
their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you 
owe more to me than you care to confess ? — Would you 
have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has undertaken 
Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who 
was it first made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabba- 
roon's rout. Who got him to promise us his interest ? 
Is not he a back-stair favorite — one that can do what he 
pleases with those that do what they please? Is not he 
an acquaintance that all your groaning and lamentations 
could never have got us. 

Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
-And yet what amazes me is, that, while he is giving 
away places to all the world, he can 't get one for him- 
self. 

Mrs. Croaker. That perhaps, may be owing to his 
nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 

Enter French Servant. 

Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil 
be vait upon your honors instammant. He be only giv- 
ing four five instruction, read two tree memorial, call 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 205 

upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid } r ou in one tree 
minutes. 

Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What an exten- 
sive department ! Well, friend, let your master know 
that we are extremely honored by this honor. Was there 
anything ever in a higher style of breeding ? All mes- 
sages among the great are now done by express. 

\_JExit French servant. 

Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with 
more solemnity, or claims more respect than he. But 
he 's in the right on't. In our bad world, respect is giv- 
en where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear ; you 
were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us 
now think of receiving him with proper respect, (a loud 
rapping at the door,) and there he is, by the thundering 
rap. 

Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the 
heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the 
back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, whilst 
I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to steal a mar- 
riage without mine or her aunt's consent. I must seem 
to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. 

{Exit. 

Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant. 

Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teas- 
ing creature, the Marquis should call, I'm not at home. 
Damme, I'll be pack-horse to none of them. — My dear 
madam, I have just snatched a moment — And if the ex- 
18 



206 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

presses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they 
're of importance. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the 
commission, let him know that it is made out. As for 
Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you 
understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 

Lofty. And Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the 
Cornish borough, you must do him ; you must do him, I 
say — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. — And if the 
Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call to-day, 
I believe. — And now, madam, I have just got time to ex- 
press my happiness in having the honor of being permit- 
ted to profess myself your most obedient, humble servant. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honor are all 
mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while I de- 
tain you. 

Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to 
be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly 
devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in 
affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, 
teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I 
know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 

Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, ' Toils of empires pleas- 
ures are,' as Waller says. 

Lofty. Waller — Waller ; is he of the House ? 

Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 

Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise 
the moderns ! and as for the ancients, we have no time 
to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 207 

wives and daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here I 
stand that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know 
nothing of books ; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage 
fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two hours 
without feeling the want of them. 

Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's 
eminence in every capacity. 

Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. I'm 
nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure 
gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the pres- 
ent ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable 
man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all 
their little, dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder 
what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, 
have always been my mark ; and I vow, by all that 's 
honorable, my resentment has never done the men, as 
mere men, any manner of harm — that is, as mere men. 

Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what mod- 
esty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I 
own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it 
was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. * I love 
Jack Lofty,' he used to say, l no man has a finer knowl- 
edge of things ; quite a man of information ; and when 
he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, he's prodigious — 
he scouts them ; and yet all men have their faults ; too 
much modesty is his,' says his Grace. 

Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't want as- 
surance when you come to solicit for your friends. 

Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a 



208 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

certain personage ; we must name no names. When I 
ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take my 
friend by the button. A fine girl, sir ; great justice in 
her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Busi- 
ness must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, 
her business must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 

Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the Sec- 
retary of State, did you ? 

Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I ? Well, curse 
it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it, — it 
was to the Secretary. 

Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head 
at once, not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Hon- 
eywood would have had us. 

Lofty. Honey wood ! he ! he ! He was indeed a fine 
solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just hap- 
pened to him ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Poor, dear man ! no accident, I hope ? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that 's all. His creditors 
have taken him into custody — a prisoner in his own 
house. 

Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! How ? 
At this very time ? I'm quite unhappy for him. 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was im- 
mensely good-natured. But then, I could never find that 
he had anything in him. 

3Irs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was excessive 
harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my 
part, I always concealed my opinion. 

Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
dull — dull as the last new comedy ! a poor, impractica- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 209 

ble creature ! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit 
for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom-por- 
ter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland 
think of Jiim ! For, I believe, with all his faults, she loves 
him. 

Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure her 
of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she were sent 
to him this instant, in his present doleful situation ? My 
life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect anti- 
dote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room ? 
Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must 
not be thrown away. Upon my honor, madam, I have a 
regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should be 
thrown away I should think it no indignity to marry her 
myself. [Exeunt. 

Enter Olivia and Leontine. 

Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every rea- 
son to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did everything 
in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. 

Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there 's nothing so indelicate 
in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be 
the most guilty thing alive. 

Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The same at- 
tention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised 
to lessen it with her. What more could I do ? 

Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. 
We have both dissembled too long. I have always been 
ashamed — I am now quite weary of it. Sure, I could 
never have undergone so much for any other but you. 
18* 



210 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
your kindest compliance. Though our friends should to- 
tally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for 
the deficiencies of fortune. 

Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I may 
be the favorite of your father, it is true ; but can it ever 
be thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child, 
will continue to a known deciever ? 

Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. As 
his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His own 
marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Besides, I 
have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his 
answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or 
two that dropped from him, I am induced to think he knows 
of this affair. 

Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too 
great too be expected. 

Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have power 
over him ; and am persuaded, if you informed him of our 
situation, that he would be disposed to pardon it. 

Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from 
your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has 
succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leontine. And that 's the best reason for trying an- 
other. 

Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. 
Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire with- 
in hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share 
your danger, or confirm your victory. [Exit. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 211 

ffiiter Croaker. 

Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too 
easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the deco- 
rums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her 
with an idea of my authority. 

Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — Might I 
presume, sir — if I interrupt you 

Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, it is 
not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over 
little things. 

Olivia. Sir, you 're too kind. I 'm sensible how ill I 
deserve this partiality ; yet, Heaven knows, there is 
nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, you 
little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, 
on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any thing, 
unless it were a very great offence indeed. 

Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you 
know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though I feel 
the greatest pain in the confession. 

Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, 
you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I know every 
syllable of the matter before you begin. 

Olivia. Indeed ! then I 'm undone. 

Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, with- 
out letting me know it, did you? But I'm not worth 
being consulted, I suppose, when there 's to be a marriage 
in my own family. No, I 'm to have no hand in the dis- 
posal of my own children. No, I 'm nobody. I 'm to be 
a mere article of family lumber ; a piece of cracked china, 
to be stuck up in a corner. 



212 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your au- 
thority could induce us to conceal it from you. 

Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I 'm as 
little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up 
with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw — It goes 
to my heart to vex her. • [Aside. 

Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and des- 
paired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. But 
your severity shall never abate my affection, as my pun- 
ishment is but justice. 

Croaker. And yet you should not despair, neither, 
Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 

Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can I 
ever expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long de- 
ceived me. 

Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you now, 
for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive you all ! 
and now you are indeed my daughter. 

Olivia. Oh transport ! this kindness overpowers me. 

Croaker. I was always against severity to our chil- 
dren. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and we 
can 't expect boys and girls to be old before their time. 

Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the 
many falsehoods, the dissimulation 

Croaker. Tou did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; 
but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? 
My wife and I had never been married, if we had not 
dissembled a little beforehand. 

Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put such 
generosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of 
my offence and folly, from his native honor, and the just 
sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 213 

Enter Leontine. 

Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
(Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for 
this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds 
all your former tenderness : I now can boast the most in- 
dulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, 
was but a trifling blessing. 

Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that 
fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I do n't know 
what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occa- 
sion. 

Leontine. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent, when 
so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of 
being grateful? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of 
sharing in the transports that you have thus occasioned ? 

Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough without 
your coming in to make up the party. I do n't know 
what 's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has got 
into such a rhodomontade manner all this morning! 

Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the 
benefit is it not my duty to show my joy ? Is the being 
admitted to your favor so slight an obligation ? Is the 
happiness of marrying Olivia so small a blessing ? 

Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marry- 
ing his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. 
His own sister ! 

Leontine. My sister ! 

Olivia. Sister ! how have I been mistaken ! [Aside. 

Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 

[Aside. 



214 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. What does the booby mean ? or has he 



Leontine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marry- 
ing her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir, — I have 
made a point of it. 

Croaker. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You 
have made a point of it ? Then you had as good make a 
point of first giving away yourself, as I 'm going to pre- 
pare the writings between you and Miss Richland this 
very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing ! Why 
what 's the matter now ? I thought I had made you at 
least as happy as you could wish. 

Olivia. Oh, yes, sir ; very happy. 

Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look 
as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, I 
have as sharp a look-out as another ; and yet I foresee 
nothing. \ExiU 

Leontine and Olivia. 

Olivia. What can it mean ? 

Leontine. He knows something, and jet, for my life, 
I can 't tell what. 

Olivia. It can 't be the connection "between us, I 'm 
pretty certain. 

Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I 'm resolved 
to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. 
I '11 haste and prepare for our journey to Scotland, this 
very evening. My friend Honey wood has promised me 
his advice and assistance. I '11 go to him and repose our 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 215 

distresses on his friendly bosom ; and I know so much of 
his honest heart, that if he can 't relieve our uneasiness, 
he will at least share them. [Exeunt. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene — young honeywood's house. 
Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 

Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men as 
you in my time — no disparagement of you neither — 
men that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. 
I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler 
practice than myself. 

Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. I forget 

your name, sir ? 

Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? 
he ! he I he ! 

Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 

Bailiff. Yes, you may. 

Honeywood. Then, pray sir, what is your name ? 

Bailiff. That I did n't promise to tell you. — He ! he ! 
he ! — A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that 
practise the law. 

Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it a 
secret, perhaps ? 

Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I 'm 
ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can 



216 THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. 

show cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I should 
prove my name — But, come, Timothy Twitch is my 
name. And, now you know my name, what have you to 
say to that ? 

Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
but that I have a favor to ask, that 's all. 

Bailiff. Ay, favors are more easily asked than grant- 
ed, as we say among us that practise the law. I have 
taken an oath against granting favors. Would you have 
me perjure myself? 

Honeywood. But my request will come recommended 
in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you '11 have no scru- 
ple (pidling out his purse). The thing is only this : I 
believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or 
three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair 
known for the world, I have thoughts of keeping you, 
and your good friend here, about me, till the debt is dis- 
charged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 

Bailiff. Oh ! that 's another maxum, and altogether 
within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get 
any thing by a thing, there 's no reason why all things 
should not be done in civility. 

Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 

[ Gives him money. 

Bailiff. Oh ! your honor ; I hope your honor takes 
nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in 
so doing. I 'm sure no man can say I ever give a gentle- 
man, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a 
gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to 
see him for ten weeks together. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 217 

Honeywood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 

Bailiff. Ay, sir, it 's a perfect treasure. I love to see 
a gentleman with a tender heart. I do n't know, but I 
think I have a tender heart myself. If all that I have 
lost by my heart was put together, it would make a — but 
no matter for that. 

Honeywood. Do n't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The 
ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the con- 
scious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. 

Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It 's better than 
gold. I love humanity. People may say, that we in our 
way have no humanity ; but I '11 show you my humanity 
this moment. There 's my follower here, little Flanigan, 
with a wife and four children — a guinea or two would be 
more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I 
can 't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave 
you '11 do it for me. 

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most 
powerful recommendation. 

[Giving money to the follower. 

Bailiff. Sir, you 're a gentleman. I see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business ; we are 
to be with you here as your friends, I suppose. But set 
in case company comes. Little Flanigan here, to be sure, 
has a good face — a very good face ; but then, he is a 
little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law, — 
not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 

Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied without 
delay. 

A 19 



218 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant Sir, Miss Richland is below. 

Honeywood. How unlucky! Detain her a moment. 
We must improve my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's 
appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of 
my clothes — quick — the brown and silver — Do you 
hear? 

Servant. That your honor gave away to the begging 
gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. 

Honeywood. The white and gold then. 

Servant. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, be- 
cause it was good for nothing. 

Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand then — 
the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan would look 
best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 

Bailiff. Eabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well 
in any thing. Ah, if your honor knew that bit of flesh 
as well as I do, you 'd be perfectly in love with him. 
There 's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a 
shy-cock than he: scents like a hound — sticks like a 
weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black 
Queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. (Re- 
enter Flanigan.) Heh ! ecod, I thinks he looks so well ? 
that I do n't care if I have a suit from the same place for 
myself. 

Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear 
Mr. Twitch, I beg you '11 give your friend directions not 
to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing 
without being directed. 

Bailiff. Never you fear me ; Pll show the lady I 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 219 

have something to say for myself as well as another. 
One man has one way of talking, and another man has 
another, that 's all the difference between them. 

Enter Miss Richland and Garnet. 

Miss Richland. You '11 be surprised, sir, with this visit. 
But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my 
little library. 

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; as it 
was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. 
Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flan- 
igan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 

Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking men be ? 
I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. [Aside, 

Bailiff. (After a pause.) Pretty weather; very 
pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. 

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. 

Honeywood. You officers are generally favorites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon 
very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, 
in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave. 

Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
favor. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I pre- 
sume, sir? 

Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 

Miss Richland. I 'm told so. And I own it has often 
surprised me, that while we have had so many instances 
of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to 
praise it. 

Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not 



220 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

written as our sailors have fought ; but they have done 
all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. 

Miss Richland. I 'm quite displeased when I see a 
fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Honeywood. We should not be so severe against dull 
writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest writer 
exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to de^ 
spise him. 

Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all 
that belongs to them ! 

Miss Richland. Sir ! 

Honeywood. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A 
true English officer, madam; he's not contented with 
beating the French, but he will scold them too. 

Miss Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. 
It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, 
that has brought them in turn to taste us. 

Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they de- 
vour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I ? 11 be damn'd 
but they come in for a bellyfull. 

Miss Richland. Yery extraordinary this ! 

Follower. But very true. What makes the bread 
rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the 
mutton fivepence a pound ? the parle vous that eat it up. 
What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot ? 

Honeywood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out. 
(Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, 
and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, madam, 
between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are 
injured as much by the French severity in the one, as by 
French rapacity in the other. That 's their meaning. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 221 

Miss Richland. Though I do n't see the force of the 
parallel, yet I '11 own, that we should sometimes pardon 
books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agree- 
able absurdities to recommend them. 

Bailiff. That 's all my eye. The King only can par- 
don, as the law says : for, set in case 

Honeywood. I 'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the 
whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our pre- 
suming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that 
belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what 
writer can be free ? 

Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can 
set him free at any time : for, set in case 

Honeywood. I 'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, 
madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of 
a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful 
of his dearer part, his fame. 

Follower. Ay, but if so be a man 's nabb'd, you 
know 

Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you 
could not improve the last observation. For my own 
part, I think it conclusive. 

Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 

Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave, in this instance, 
to be positive. For where is the necessity of censuring 
works without genius, which must shortly sink of them- 
selves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessati§r blow against 
a victim already under the hands of justice ? 

Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk 
about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a course 

of law 

19* 



222 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
you 'd be at, perfectly ; and I believe the lady must be 
sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I suppose 
you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of law. 

Miss Richland. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
only that you answer one gentleman before he has finish- 
ed, and the other before he has well begun. 

Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will 
make the matter out. This here question is about sever- 
ity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now, 
to explain the thing 

Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [Aside. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
with you upon earnest business. 

Honeywood. That 's lucky. (Aside.) Dear madam, 
you '11 excuse me and my good friends here, for a few 
minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. Come, 
gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such 
friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must. 
But I know your natural politeness. 

Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 

Folloiver. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be- 
hind. [ Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 

Miss Richland. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 

Garnet. Mean, madam ! why, what should it mean, 
but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These people 
he calls officers, are officers sure enough : sheriff's offi- 
cers — bailiffs, madam. 

~Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 



THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 223 

his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
own there is something very ridiculous in them, and a 
just punishment for his dissimulation. 

Garnet. And so they are : but I wonder, madam, that 
the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set 
him free, has not done it by this time. He ought at least 
to have been here before now. But lawyers are always 
more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. 

Enter Sir William. 

Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake setting 
him free, I own, w 7 as quite unexpected. It has totally 
unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me 
pleasure to find, that among a number of worthless friend- 
ships, he has made one acquisition of real value; for 
there must be some softer passion on her side, that prompts 
this generosity. Ha ! here before me ? I '11 endeavor to 
sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that 
have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, 
I hope you '11 excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I want- 
ed to see yourself. 

Miss Richland. The precaution was very unnecessary, 
sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent 
had power to satisfy. 

Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also willing 
you should be fully apprized of the character of the gen- 
tleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Richland. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
grace from you. To censure it, after what you have 
done, would look like malice ; and to speak favorably of a 
character you have oppressed, would be impeaching your 



224 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

own. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his univer- 
sal friendship, may atone for many faults. 

Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is exert- 
ed in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our 
bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when diffused too 
widely. They who pretend most to this universal benev- 
olence, are either deceivers or dupes, — men who desire 
to cover their private ill-nature by a pretended regard for 
all, or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, 
are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful, 
virtues. 

Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, who 
has probably been a gainer ^by the folly of others, so se- 
vere in his censure of it. 

Sir William. Whatever I have gained by folly, mad- 
am, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. 

Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are unneces- 
sary ; I always suspect those services which are denied 
where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of 
a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been given, and I 
insist upon their being complied with. 

Sir William. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer 
contain the expressions of my gratitude — my pleasure. 
You see before you one who has been equally careful of 
his interest ; one who has for some time been a concealed 
spectator of his follies, and only punished in hopes to re- 
claim them, — his uncle ! 

Miss Richland. Sir William Honey wood ! You amaze 
me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I fear, sir, 
you '11 think I have been too forward in my services. I 
confess I 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 225 

Sir William. Do n't make any apologies, madam. I 
only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And 
yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. 
Having learned, madam, that you had some demands 
upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your 
solicitor there. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
intentions. But my guardian has employed another gen- 
tleman, who assures him of success. 

Sir William. Who, the important little man that 
visits here ? Trust me, madam, he 's quite contemptible 
among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. 
Mr. Lofty's promises are much better known to people 
of fashion than his person, I assure you. 

Miss Richland. How have we been deceived ! As 
sure as can be, here he comes. 

Sir William. Does he ? Remember I 'm to continue 
unknown. My return to England has not as yet been 
made public. With what impudence he enters ! 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off; I'll 
visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here 
before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. 
I 'm very sorry, madam, things of this kind should hap- 
pen, especially to a man I have shown every where, and 
carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 

Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of making 
the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like 



226 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

me do ? One man can 't do every thing ; and then, I do 
so much in this way every day. Let me see — some- 
thing considerable might be done for him by subscription ; 
it could not fail if I carried the list. I '11 undertake to 
set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the 
Lower House, at my own peril. 

Sir William. And, after all, it 's more than probable, 
sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful patronage. 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do ? You know I 
never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to 
do something with him in the way of business ; but as I 
often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man 
was utterly impracticable. 

Sir William. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I sup- 
pose, is a particular friend of yours. 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir ? — Yes, madam, as I often 
said, My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do 
any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your 
family: but what can be done ? there 's no procuring first- 
rate places for ninth rate-abilities. 

Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William Honey- 
wood ; he 's abroad in employment : he confided in your 
judgment, I suppose ? 

Lofty. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William had 
some reason to confide in my judgment — one little reason, 
perhaps. 

Miss Richland. Pray, sir, what was it ? 

Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — it 
was I procured him his place. 

Sir William. Did you, sir ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 227 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir ? 

Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind in- 
deed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amus- 
ing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a 
club, or had a better head. 

Miss Richland. A better head ? 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull as 
a choice spirit ; but hang it, he was grateful, very grate- 
ful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 

Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps^ His 
place is pretty considerable, I 'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of busi- 
ness. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. 

Sir William. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 
I 'm told he 's much about my size and figure, sir ? 

Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but 
then he wanted a something — a consequence of form — 
a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my meaning. 

Miss Richland. Oh, perfectly ! you courtiers can do 
any thing, I see. / 

Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- 
change ; we do greater things for one another every day. 
Why, as thus, now : Let me suppose you the First Lord 
of the Treasury ; you have an employment in you that I 
want — I have a place in me that you want ; do me here, 
do you there : interest of both sides, few words, fiat, done 
and done, and it 's over. 

Sir William. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now 
you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he 
seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you '11 be glad to 



228 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

hear he is arrived from Italy : I had it from a friend who 
knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend 
on my information. 

Lofty. (Aside.) The devil he is ! If I had known 
that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted. 

Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as this 
gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal service 
to us, by introducing me to him : there are some papers 
relative to your affairs that require despatch, and his in- 
spection. 

Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per- 
son employed in my affairs — I know you '11 serve us. 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir 
William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to 
command it. 

Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. 

Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon 
me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for 
ever. 

Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be ; but 
damn it, that 's unfortunate : My Lord Grig's cursed Pen- 
sacola business comes on this very hour, and I 'm engaged 
to attend — another time 

Sir William. A short letter to Sir William will do. 

Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a letter 
is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face, that 's 
my way. 

Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do 3 r ou pretend to direct me ? 
direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, 
sir ? who am I ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 229 

Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so 
much his as mine ; if my commands — but you despise 
my power. 

Lofty. Delicate creature ! — your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight : to a power so consti- 
tutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall 
have a letter : where is my secretary ? Dubardieu. And 
yet, I protest, I do n't like this way of doing business. I 
think if I first spoke to Sir William — but you will have 
it so. [Exit with Miss Richland. 

Sir William. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! This too is 
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity ! thou 
constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt serve but 
to sink us ! Thy false colorings, like those employed to 
heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which 
they contribute to destroy. I 'm not displeased at this in- 
terview ; exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt 
it deserves, may be of use to my design ; at least, if he 
can reflect, it will be of use to himself. 

Enter Jarvis. 

How now, Jarvis, where 's your master, my nephew ? 

Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe : he 's scarce gotten 
out of one scrape, but he 's running his head into another. 

Sir William. How so? 

Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bail- 
iffs, and now he's again engaging, tooth and nail, in assisting 
old Croaker's son to patch up a clandestine match with 
the young lady that passes in the house for his sister. 

Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 

Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young couple, 
20 



230 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

it seems, are just setting out for Scotland; and he sup- 
plies them with money for the journey. 

Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply others, 
who has scarce any for himself? 

Jarvis. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's true ; 
but then, as he never said No to any request in his life, 
he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend of his upon 
a merchant in the city, which I am to get changed ; for - 
you must know that I am to go with them to Scotland 
myself. 

Sir William. How? 

Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to 
take a different road from his mistress, as he is to call 
upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order 
to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; 
so they have borrowed me from my master, as the prop- 
erest person to attend the young lady down. 

Sir William. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant 
journey, Jarvis. 

Jarvis. Ay, but I 'm only to have all the fatigues on 't. 

Sir William. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatigu- 
ing, than you imagine. I know but too much of the 
young lady's family and connections, whom I have seen 
abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Richland is not 
indifferent to my thoughtless nephew ; and will endeavor, 
though I fear in vain, to establish that connection. But 
come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I '11 
let you farther into my intentions in the next room. 

[Exeunt. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 231 

ACT FOURTH. 

Scene — Croaker's House. 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Well, sure the devil 's in me of late, for run- 
ning my head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius 
like my own could draw me from. I was formerly con- 
tented to husband out my places and pensions with some 
degree of frugality ; but curse it, of late I have given 
away the whole Court Register in less time than they 
could print the title-page ; yet, hang it, why scruple a lie 
or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a 
thousand for nothing? Ha! Honey wood here before 
me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? * 

Enter Honeywood. 

Mr. Honeywood, I 'm glad to see you abroad again. I 
find my concurrence was not necessary in your unfortu- 
nate affairs. I had put things in a train to do your busi- 
ness ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. 

Honeyivood. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be 
acquainted with my misfortune, I myself continue still a 
stranger to my benefactor. 

Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you ? 

Honeywood. Can 't guess at the person. 

Lofty. Inquire. 



232 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN- 

Honeywood. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he 
chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be 
fruitless. 

Lofty. Must be fruitless ? 

Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless. 

Lofty. Sure of that ? 

Honeywood. Very sure. 

Lofty. Then I '11 be damn'd if you shall ever know it 
from me. 

Honeywood. How, sir ? 

Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think my 
rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of 
money to throw away ; I know you do. The world, t« 
be sure, says such things of me. 

Honeyioood. The world, by what I learn, is no stran- 
ger to your generosity. But where does this tend ? 

Lofty. To nothing — nothing in the world. The town, 
to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject 
of conversation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized 
a man of merit. 

Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
even from yourself. 

Lofty. Yes, Honey wood ; and there are instances to 
the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. 

Honeywood. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but 
one question. 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me no 
questions ; I '11 be damn'd if I answer them. 

Honeyioood. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my 
benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted for 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 233 

freedom — for honor. Yes, thou worthiest of men, from 
the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return 
thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem reproaches. 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. Hon- 
eywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, 
sir — Blood, sir, can 't a man be permitted to enjoy the 
luxury of his own feelings, without all this parade ? 

Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action 
that adds to your honor. Your looks, your air, your man- 
ner, all confess it. 

Lofty. Confess it, sir ! torture itself, sir, shall never 
bring me to confess it, Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted 
you upon terms of friendship. Do n't let us fall out ; 
make- me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You 
know I hate ostentation ; you know I do. Come, come, 
Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and 
not a patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance 
between us. Come, come, you and I must be more famil- 
iar — indeed we must. 

Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friend- 
ship ? Is there any way ? Thou best of men, can I 
ever return the obligation ? 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your 
heart is laboring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. 
It would be cruel to disappoint you. 

Honeywood. How ? teach me the manner. Is there 
any way ? 

Lofty. From this moment you 're mine. Yes, my 
friend, you shall know it — I 'm in love. 

Honeywood. And can I assist you. 

Lofty. Nobody so well. 

20* 



234 TIIE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. In what manner ? I 'm all impatience. 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 

Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
favor ? 

Lofty. To a lady with whom you have a great inter- 
est, 1 assure you — Miss Richland. 

Honeywood. Miss Richland ! 

Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow 
up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 

Honeywood. Heavens ! was ever any thing more un- 
fortunate ? It is too much to be endured. 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can endure 
it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between 
ourselves, I think she likes me. I 'm not apt to boast, 
but I think she does. 

Honeywood. Indeed ! But do you know the person 
you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine: 
that "s enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success 
of my passion. I '11 say no more, let friendship do the 
rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my little in- 
terest can be of service — but, hang it, I'll make no 
promises : you know my interest is yours at any time. 
No apologies my friend, I '11 not be answered ; it shall be 
so. \_Exit. 

Honeywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He 
little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an ardent 
passion ! But then it was ever but a vain and hopeless 
one : my torment, my persecution ! What shall I do ? 
Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! 
Love that has been my tormenter ; a friend, that has per- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 235 

haps distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, 
I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and ex- 
ert all my influence in his favor. And yet to see her in 
the possession of another! — Insupportable! But then 
to betray a generous, trusting friend! — Worse, worse! 
Yes, I 'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of 
their happiness, and then quit a country, where I must 
for ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. 

Miter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. 

Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. No 
news of Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish creature 
delays purely to vex me. 

Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, 
a little snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear 
it the better afterwards. 

Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to 
get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! 

Garnet. I '11 lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice 
as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn : 
and here you are left behind. 

Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, how- 
ever. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet ? 

Garnet. Not a stick, madam ; all 's here. Yet I wish 
you could take the white and silver to be married in. 
It 's the worst luck in the world in any thing but white. 
I knew one Bett Stubbs of our town, that was married in 
red ; and as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she 
had a miff before morning. 

Olivia. No matter, I 'm all impatience till we are out 
of the house. 



236 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
wedding ring ! The sweet little thing. I do n't think it 
would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a 
gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, madam? — 
But here *s Jarvis. 

Enter Jarvis. 

Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last ! We have 
been ready this half hour. Now let 's be going. Let us 
fly! 

Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to 
Scotland this bout, I fancy. 

Olivia. How ! what 's the matter ? 

Jarvis. Money, money is the matter, madam. We 
have got no money. What the plague do you send me 
of your fool's errand for ? My master's bill upon the city 
is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin 
up her hair with it. 

Olivia. Undone ! How could Honey wood serve us 
so ? What shall we do ? Can 't we go without it ? 

Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
land without money ! Lord ! how some people under- 
stand geography ! We might as well set sail for Patago- 
nia upon a cork-jacket. 

Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insin- 
cere man was your master, to serve us in this manner ! 
Is this his good-nature ? 

Jarvis. Nay, do n't talk ill of my master, madam ; I 
won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. 

Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on 't, madam, you 
need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 237 

receive forty guineas' from his father just before he set 
out, and he can 't yet have left the inn. A short letter 
will reach him there. 

Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I '11 write imme- 
diately. How 's this ? Bless me, my hand trembles so, 
I can 't write a word. Do you write, Garnet ; and, upon 
second thought, it will be better from you. 

Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. 
I never was cute at my learning. But I '11 do what I can 
to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I 
suppose ? 

Olivia. Whatever you please. 

Garnet. (Writing.) 'Muster Croaker' — Twenty 
guineas, madam ? 

Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 

Garnet. < At the bar of the Talbot till called for. — 
Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame — Quick 
despatch — Cupid, the little god of love.' — I conclude it, 
madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love letter end like 
poetry. 

Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But 
how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants 
of this family. 

Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honey wood's butler is in 
the next room : he 's a dear, sweet man ; he '11 do any 
thing for me. 

Jarvis. He ! the dog, he '11 certainly commit some 
blunder. He 's drunk and sober ten times a-day. 

Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet : any body we can 
trust will do. [Exit Garnet.'] Well, Jarvis, now we can 
have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may take up the 



238 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no 
hands, Jarvis ? 

Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are 
going to be married think things can never be done too 
fast ; but we, that are old, and know what we are about, 
must elope methodically, madam. 

Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done 
over again 

Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times 
over 

Olivia. "Why will you talk so ? If you knew how un- 
happy they make me 

Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as 
unhappy when I was going to be married myself. I '11 
tell you a story about that 

Olivia. A story! when I am all impatience to be 
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! 

Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will 
march, that 's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still for- 
got one thing we should never travel without — a case of 
good razors, and a box of shaving powder. But no mat- 
ter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. 

[ Going. 

Enter Garnet. 

Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, 
you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honey- 
wood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter be- 
fore he went ten yards from the door. There 's old 
Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment reading 
it to himself in the hall. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 239 

Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 

Garnet. No, madam ; do n't be uneasy, he can make 
neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if he 
was broke loose from Bedlam, about it, but he can 't find 
what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way- 
all in the horrors. 

Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant for 
fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean time, 
Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. 

\Exeunt. 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Death and destruction ! Are all the horrors 
of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me ? Am I 
only to be singled out for gunpowder plots, combustibles, 
and conflagrations ? Here it is — An incendiary letter 
dropped at my door. ' To Muster Croaker, these with 
speed.' Ay, ay, plain enough the direction : all in the 
genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. 
1 With speed.' Oh, confound your speed ! But let me 
read it once more. (Heads.) i Muster Croaker, as sone 
as yowe see this, leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the 
Talboot tell caled for, or yowe and yower experetion will 
be al blown up.' Ah, but too plain ! Blood and gun- 
powder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! 
All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor 
family done, to be all blown up ? (Heads.) ' Our pock- 
ets are low, and money we must have.' Ay, there 's the 
reason ; they '11 blow us up, because they have got low 
pockets. (Reads.) ' It is but a short time you have to 
consider ; for if this takes wind, the house will quickly 



240 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

be all of a flame.' Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and 
then burn us ! The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bon- 
fire to it. (Beads.) * Make quick despatch, and so no 
more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, 
go with you wherever you go.' The little god of love ! 
Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ! — Go you to 
the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I 'm so 
frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. 
Perhaps this moment I 'm treading on lighted matches, 
blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are 
preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We 
shall be all burnt in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in 
our beds ! 

Enter Miss Richland. 

Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what 's the matter ? 

Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown 
up in our beds before morning. 

Miss Richland. I hope not, sir. 

Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when 
I have a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing 
alarm my family ? Sleeping and eating — sleeping and 
eating is the only work from morning till night in my 
house. My insensible crew could sleep though rocked by 
an earthquake, and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. 

Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
often already; we have nothing but earthquakes, fam- 
ines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end to year's end. 
You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago, you 
assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to poison us 
in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon 
potatoes. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 241 

Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But 
why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be 
facing the enemy without ! Here, John, Nicodemus, 
search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if there 
be any combustibles below ; and above, in the apartments, 
that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all 
the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in 
the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 

Miss Richland. (Alone.) What can he mean by all 
this ? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in 
this manner almost every day. But Honey wood has de- 
sired an interview with me in private. What can he 
mean ? or rather, what means this palpitation at his ap- 
proach ? It is the first time he ever showed anything in 
his conduct that seemed particular. Sure, he cannot 
mean to — but he -s here. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, mad- 
am, before I left town, to be permitted 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! leaving town, sir ? 

Honeywood. Yes, .madam, perhaps the kingdom. I 
have presumed, I say, to desire the favor of this interview, 
in order to disclose something which our long friendship 
prompts. And yet my fears 

Miss Richland. His fears ! what are his fears to mine ! 
{Aside.) We have, indeed, been long acquainted, sir ; 
very long. If I remember, our first meeting was at the 
French ambassador's. Do you recollect how you were 
pleased to rally me upon my complexion there ? 

Honeywood. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to re- 
21 



242 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

prove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon 
convinced the company that the coloring was all from 
nature. 

Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your 
good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to my- 
self. In the same manner, you danced that night with 
the most awkward woman in company, because you saw 
nobody else would take her out. 

Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night 
by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom ev- 
erybody wished to take out. 

Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I 
fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a 
first impression. We generally show to most advantage 
at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all 
their best goods to be seen at the windows. 

' Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did indeed 
decieve me. I expected to find a woman with all the 
faults of conscious, flattered beauty : I expected to find 
her vain and insolent. But every day has since taught 
me, that it is possible to possess sense without pride, and 
beauty without affectation. - 

Miss Richland. This, sir, is a 'style very unusual with 
Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know why he 
thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his "own les- 
sons have taught me to despise. 

Honeywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 
long friendship, I presumed I might have some right to 
offer, without offence, what you may refuse without of- 
fending. 

Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you 'd reflect : though I 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 243 

fear I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request of 
yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 

Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the 
cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't be alarmed, 
madam — who loves you with the most ardent passion, 
whose whole happiness is placed in you 

Miss Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
you mean, by this description of him. 

Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him 
out ! though he should be too humble himself to urge his 
pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. 

Miss Richland. "Well, it would be affectation any long- 
er to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I have long 
been prejudiced in his favor. It was but natural to wish 
to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant 
of its value. 

Honeywood. I see she always loved him. (Aside) I 
find, madam, you 're already sensible of his worth, his pas- 
sion. How happy is my friend to be the favorite of one 
with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to 
reward it ! 

Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? 

Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss Richland. He, sir ? 

Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what 
your warmest wishes might have formed him ; and to his 
other qualities he adds that of the most passionate regard 
for you. 

Miss Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this, I 
beg you, sir. 



244 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know 
how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read the lan- 
guage of your heart, shall I make by friend happy, by 
communicating your sentiments ? 

Miss Richland. By no means. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire 
it. 

Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that 
you wrong my sentiments and yourself. "When I first 
applied to your friendship, I expected advice and assist- 
ance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to expect hap- 
piness from him who has been so bad an economist of his 
own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases 
to be a friend to himself. \Exit. 

Honeywood. How is this ? she has confessed she lov- 
ed him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. • Can 
I have done anything to reproach myself with ? No ! I 
believe not: yet, after all, these things should not be done 
by a third person : I should have spared her confusion. 
My friendship carried me a little too far. 

Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, 
and Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it 's 
your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon 
this occasion ? Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. (Mimicking.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my 
dear, it 's your supreme pleasure to give me no better 
consolation ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear ; what is this in- 
cendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house may 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 245 

travel through the air, like the house of Loretto, for aught 
I care, If I 'm to be miserable in it. 

Croaker. Would to heaven it were converted into a 
house of correction for your benefit. Have we not ev- 
erything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment the 
tragedy is beginning. 

Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till 
the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they 
want, and have done with them. 

Croaker. Give them my money ! — and pray, what 
right have they to my money ? 

Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right, then, have you 
to my good-humor ? 

Croaker. And so your good-humor advises me to part 
with my money ? Why, then, to tell your good-humor a 
piece of my mind, I 'd sooner part with my wife. Here 
is Mr. Honeywood ; see what he '11 say to it. My dear 
Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my 
door. It Avill freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey can 
read it — can read it, and laugh. 

Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 

Croaker. If he does, I '11 suffer to be hanged the next 
minute in the rogue's place, that 's all. 

Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there any 
thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon this oc- 
casion ? 

Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, mad- 
am ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but 
invite them to renew their villany another time. 

Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 

Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
21* 



246 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my 
fears nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit 
of a man in me ? 

Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the 
loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The surest 
way to have redress is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. 

Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 

Mrs. Croaker. But do n't you think that laughing off 
our fears is the best way ? 

Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; 
but I '11 maintain it to be a very wise way. 

Croaker. But we 're talking of the best. Surely the 
best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait 
till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. 

Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that 's a 
very wise way too. 

Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more absurd, 
than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, and 
put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl 
ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us ? 

Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 

Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to de- 
spise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 

Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croaker. Then you are of my opinion. 

Honeywood. Entirely. 

Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? 

Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No, sure no 
reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought cer- 
tainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and not 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 247 

make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the 
highwayman's pistol. 

Mrs. Croaker. Oh, then you think I 'm quite right ? 

Honeywood. Perfectly right. 

Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. 
I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must 
be on my head, or my hat must be off. 

Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if 
one be perfectly reasonable, the other can 't be perfectly 
right. 

Honeywood. And why may not both be right, madam ? 
Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in 
waiting the event in good-humor ? Pray, let me see the 
letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty 
guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot Inn. If it be 
indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go 
there ; and when the writer comes to be paid his expected 
booty, seize him ? 

Croaker. My dear friend, it 's the very thing — the 
very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant 
yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out upon the mis- 
creant like a masked battery ; extort a confession at once, 
and so hang him up by surprise. 

Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise 
too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes gen- 
erally punish themselves. 

Croaker. "Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I 
suppose. (Ironically.) 

Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 

Croaker. Well, well, leave that to mv own benevo- 
lence. 



248 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that univer- 
sal benevolence is the first law of nature. 

[Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. 

Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence will 
hang the dog, if he had a3 many necks as a hydra. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene — an inn. 
Enter Olivia and Jarvis. 

Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. 
Now, if the post-chaise were ready 

Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, 
as they are not going to be married, they choose to take 
their own time. 

Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my 
impatience. 

Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must 
take their own time ; besides, you do n't consider we have 
got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear 
nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. 

Olivia. What way ? 

Jarvis. The way home again. 

Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and 
nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when they 
jump with inclination. However, I '11 go hasten things 
without. And I '11 call, too, at the bar to see if any thing 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2d9 

should be left for us there. Do n't be in such a plaguy 
hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. 

\Exit Jarvis. 

Enter Landlady. 

Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you move? 
Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody an- 
swer ? To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been 
outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, mad- 
am ? 

Olivia. No, madam. 

Landlady. I find as you are for Scotland, madam — 
but that 's no business of mine ; married, or not married, 
I. ask no questions. To be sure, we had a sweet little 
couple set off from this two days ago for the same place. 
The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a 
spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the 
young lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before 
we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 

Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to. be 
married, I assure you. 

Landlady. May be not. That 's no business of mine : 
for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. There 
was, of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married 
her father's footman. Alack-a-day, she and her husband 
soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 

Olivia. (Aside.) A very pretty picture of what lies 
before me ! 

Enter Leontine. 
Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were 



250 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could not 
help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to a 
discovery. 

Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. 
Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappoint- 
ed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it seems, 
been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how 
to proceed. 

Leontine. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure he 
could not mean to deceive us ? 

Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mistook 
the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think 
no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. 

Landlady. Not quite yet ; and begging your ladyship's 
pardon, I do n't think your ladyship quite ready for the 
post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, madam. I 
have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever 
was tipt over tongue. Just a thimblefull to keep the 
wind off your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we 
had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I 
se^t them both away as good-natured — Up went the 
blinds, round went the wheels, and Drive away, post-boy ! 
was the word. 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon 
the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business to 
have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendi- 
ary's look ; for wherever the devil makes a purchase, he - 
never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we here ? 
My son and daughter ! What can they be doing here ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 251 

Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; I 
think I know by this time what 's good for the north road. 
It 's a raw night, madam. Sir — 

Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
now take it as a greater favor, if you hasten the horses, 
for I am afraid to be seen myself. 

Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! are 
you all dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! 

[Exit, bawling. 

Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, 
should end in repentance. Every moment we stay in- 
creases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. 

Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; 
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honor, 
and kept my father, as he promised, in employment till 
we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. 

Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sincer- 
ity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are from 
your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarm- 
ed without a cause, will be but too ready when there 's a 
reason. 

Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his pow- 
er. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to 
dread his resentment His repining temper, as it does no 
manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to 
others. He only frets to keep himself employed, and 
scolds for his private amusement 

Olivia. I do n't know that ; but I 'm sure, on some 
occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 



252 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker discovering himself. 

Croaker. How does lie look now ? — How does he look 
now? 

Olivia. Ah ! 

Leontine. Undone ! 

Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very 
humble servant. Madam, I am yours ! What ! you are 
going off, are you ? Then, first, if you please, take a 
word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me 
first where you are going ; and when you have told me 
that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. 

Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but increase 
your displeasure, without adding to your information. 

Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ; 
and you too, good madam, what answer have you got ? 
Eh! (A cry without, Stop him.) I think I heard a 
noise. My friend Honey wood without — has he seized 
the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on 't. 

Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was Mr. 
Honey wood that directed you hither ? 

Croaker. No, sir, it was not Mr. Honeywood conduct- 
ed me hither. 

Leontine. Is it possible ? 

Croaker. Possible ! why he 's in the house now, sir ; 
more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 

Leontine. Then, sir, he 's a villain. 

Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father ? 1 11 not bear it. I tell you 
I '11 not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, 
and I '11 have him treated as such. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 253 

Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
deserves. 

Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to de- 
tect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry without. 
Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized the incen- 
diary: they have the villain, the incendiary in view. 
Stop him I stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! stop him ! 

{Exit. 

Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean ? 

Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honey- 
wood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall 
give me instant satisfaction. 

Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my 
esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us 
not add guilt to our misfortunes : consider that our inno- 
cence will shortly be all that we have left us. You must 
forgive him. 

Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money from 
him, which appears a mere trick to delay us ; promised 
to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, 
and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? 

Olivia. Do n't be precipitate. We may yet be mis- 
taken. 

Enter Post-boy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honeywood entering 
soon after. 

Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here 
is the incendiary dog. I 'm entitled to the reward ; I '11 
22 



254 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, 
and then run for it. 

Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. 
Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his 
mistake.) Death ! what 's here ? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! 
What can all this mean ? 

Jarvis. Why, I '11 tell you what it means : that I was 
an old fool, and that you are my master — that 's all. 

Honeywood. Confusion ! 

Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can 
venture to see the man you have injured ! 

Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my hon- 
or 

Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- 
tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, 
sir, I know you. 

Honeywood. Why, won't you hear me ? By all that's 
just, I knew not 

Leontine. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I riow 
see through all your low arts j your ever complying with 
every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; your 
friendship 's as common as a prostitute's favors, and as 
fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been contemptible to 
the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 

Honeywood. Ha ! contemptible to the world ! that 
reaches me. [Aside. 

Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; and 
all your seeming regret for their consequences, only cal- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 255 

culated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, 
villain ! 

Enter Croaker, out of breath. 

Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the incen- 
diary ? (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; 
he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess ; 
confess all, and hang yourself. 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me 
for? 

Croaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do you 
resist? 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, I 'm not he ; there 's the 
man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be 
one of the company. 

Croaker. How ! 

Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a 
strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; it 
was all an error — entirely an error of our own. 

Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in error; for 
there *s guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned jesuitcial, 
pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it. 

Honeywood. Do but hear me. 

Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I sup- 
pose ? I '11 hear nothing. 

Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough 
to hear reason. 

Olivia. Excuse me. 

Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to 
you. 



256 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the thing is 
done? 

Honeywood. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever 
such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ? (To the 
Postboy.) My good friend, I believe you '11 be surprised 
when I assure you 

Postboy. Sure me nothing — I 'm sure of nothing but 
a good beating. 

Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope 
for any favor or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you 
know of this affair. 

Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I 'm but too much the cause 
of your suspicions : You see before you, sir, one that, with 
false pretences, has stept into your family to betray it ; 
not your daughter 

Croaker. Not mj daughter I 

Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver— 
who — support me, I cannot 

Honeywood. Help, she *s going ; give her air. 

Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; 
I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever daughter 
she may be — not so bad as that neither. 

\_Mcewnt all but Croaker. 
Yes, yes, all ? s out ; I now see the whole affair : my son 
is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he 
imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and 
yet I do n't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. 
There 's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes 
beforehand, — we never feel them when they come. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 257 

Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 

Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that my 
nephew intends setting off from this place ? 

Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come to 
this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave 
the kingdom, suggested the rest. But what do I see ? 
my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could 
have expected meeting you here ? To what accident do 
we owe this pleasure ? 

Croaker. To a fool, I believe. 

Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you come ? 

Croaker. To play the fool. 

Miss Richland. But with whom ? 

Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 

Miss Richland. Explain. 

Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to 
do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to be 
married to I do n't know who, that is here : so now you 
are as wise as I am. 

Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir ? 

Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; 
but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know 
no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, though 
a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family. 
It will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in 
point of birth and fortune, the young lady is at least your 
son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Wood- 

ville 

Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the West ? 
22* 



258 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care of 
a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her 
fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under pre- 
tence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix 
her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of 
this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I 
had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power 
to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even 
meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your 
son stept in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, 
and you a daughter. 

Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, by 
my interest with those that have interest, will be double 
what my son has a right to expect. Do you know Mr. 
Lofty, sir ? 

Sir William. Yes, sir: and know that you are de- 
ceived in him. But step this way, and I '11 convince you. 
[ Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Miter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his out- 
rage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to 
grow contemptible even to myself. How have I sunk, 
by too great an assiduity to please ! How have I over- 
taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single 
fool should escape me ! But all is now over : I have 
survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and 
nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and re- 
pentance. 

Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 259 

are setting off, without taking leave of your friends ? The 
report is, that you are quitting England : Can it be ? 

Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- 
happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank 
Heaven ! I leave you to happiness — to one who loves 
you, and deserves your love — to one who has power to 
procure you affluence, and generosity to improve your 
enjoyment of it. 

Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
tleman you mean is what you describe him ? 

Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his 
serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest happi- 
ness, and that is in your power to confer. As for me, 
weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and 
incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find but 
in solitude ? what hope, but in being forgotten ? 

Miss Richland. A thousand: to live among friends 
that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permit- 
ted to oblige you. 

Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. In- 
feriority among strangers is easy ; but among those that 
once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show you how 
far my resolution can go, I can now speak with calmness 
of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weak- 
ness. I will even confess, that, among the number of my 
other presumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving 
you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the passion of 
another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is 
over ; it was unworthy our friendship, and let it be for- 
gotten. 

Miss Richland. You amaze me ! 



260 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. But you '11 forgive it, I know you will : 
since the confession should not have come from me even 
now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention 
of — never mentioning it more. [ Going. 

Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha! he 
here 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have 
followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; 
but it goes no farther ; things are not yet ripe for a dis- 
covery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your 
affair at the Treasury will be done in less than — a thou- 
sand years. Mum ! 

Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into prop- 
er hands, that know where to push and where to parry ; 
that know how the land lies — eh, Honeywood ? 

Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours. 

Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your 
thing is done. It is done, I say — that 's all. I have 
just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim 
has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the 
word, madam. 

Honeywood. But how ? his lordship has been at New- 
market these ten days. 

Lofty. Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 

Miss Richland. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family 
have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 261 

Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that 
he must have met his lordship there ; and so it came 
about. I have his letter about me ; I '11 read it to you. 
(Taking out a large bundle.) % That's from Paoli of Cor- 
sica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a 
mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King 
of Poland ? Honest Pon — (Searching.) Oh, sir, what, 
are you here too ? I '11 tell you what, honest friend, if 
you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir Wil- 
liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do 
without him. 

Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must in- 
form you, it was received with the most mortifying con- 
tempt. 

Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean ? 

Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You '11 
find it come to something presently. 

Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you '11 be amazed, 
if, after waiting some time in the antechamber — after 
being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing ser- 
vants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood 
knew no such person, and I must certainly have been im- 
posed upon. 

Lofty. Good ! let me die ; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. Now, for my life, I can 't find out half the 
goodness of it. 

Lofty. You can 't ? Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as 
confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one pri- 
vate gentleman to another. 

Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 



262 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

message ? Why, I was in the house at that very time. 
Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer to my own 
letter. Ha! ha! 

Croaker. Indeed! How? why? 

Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and 
me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. 
He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert 
Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. 

Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my suspi- 
cions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions ! what, then, you have been 
suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you! Mr. 
Croaker, you and I were friends — we are friends no long- 
er. Never talk to me. It 's over ; I say, it 's over. 

Croaker. As I hope for your favor, I did not mean to 
offend. It escaped me. Do n't be discomposed. 

Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and will 
be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was 
it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs ? 
Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the 
St James's; have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a 
speaker at Merchant Tailors' Hall ; have I had my hand 
to addresses, and my head in the print-shops, — and talk 
to me of suspects ? 

Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you 
have but asking pardon ? 

Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! Who 
am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in 
favor to serve my friends, the lords of the Treasury, Sir 
William Honey wood, and the rest of "the gang, and talk 
to me of suspects ! Who am I, I say, who am I ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2G3 

Sir William. Since you are so pressing for an answer, 
I '11 tell you who you are : — A gentleman as well ac- 
quainted with politics as with men in power ; as well 
acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty ; with 
lords of the Treasury as with truth ; and, with all, as you 
are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William 
Honey wood. (Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.) 

Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 

Honeyivood. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) 

Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all 
this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to 
fling me out of the window. 

Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your 
works? Suspect you! You, who have been dreaded 
by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hand to 
addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops ? If you 
were served right, you should have your head stuck up 
in the pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for by the Lord, 
it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. 

Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see 
how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how 
little Miss Richland has to expect from his influence. 

Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it ; and I can 't but say 
I have had some boding of it these ten days. So I 'm 
resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady 
of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and 
not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him 
to a better. 

Sir William. I approve your resolution; and here 



264 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

they come, to receive a confirmation of your pardon and 
consent. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. Where 's my husband ? Come, come, 
lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to 
tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must forgive them. 
Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear ; and 
we never had any reason to repent of it. 

Croaker. I wish we could both say so. However, this 
gentleman, Sir William Honey wood, has been beforehand 
with you in obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor 
fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them to- 
gether without crossing the Tweed for it. 

[Joining their hands. 

Leontine. How blest and unexpected ! What, what 
can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedience 
shall be the best reply. And as for this gentleman, to 
whom we owe 

Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. (Turn- 
ing to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised to see 
me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led 
me hither. I saw with indignation the errors of a mind 
that only sought applause from others ; that easiness of 
disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not 
courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those 
splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbor- 
ing duty ; your charity, that was but injustice ; your be- 
nevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendship 
but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and exten- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 2GJ> 

sive learning only employed to add sprightliness to error, 
and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind with a 
thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty 
served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 

Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir: I have for 
some time but totfstrongly felt the justice of your re- 
proaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, sir, 
I have determined this very hour to quit for ever a place 
where I have made myself the voluntary slave of all, 
and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may 
give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated 
virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favor for 
this gentleman, who, notwithstanding what has happened, 
has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. Lof- 
ty 

Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I '"m resolved upon a reforma- 
tion as well as you. I now begin to find that the man 
who first invented the art of speaking truth was a much 
cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that 
I design to speak truth for the future, I must now assure 
you, that you owe your late enlargement to another ; as, 
upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, if 
any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may 
take my place ; I 'm determined to resign. \_Exit. 

Honeywood. How have I been deceived ! 

Sir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kind- 
er, fairer friend, for that favor, — to Miss Richland. Would 
she complete our joy, and make the man she has honored 
by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget 
all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman 
can make me. 

23 



266 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Miss Richland. After what is past, it would be but 
affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an 
attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And 
if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit the 
country, I will even try if my hand has not power to de- 
tain him. [ Giving her hand. 

Honeywood. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all 
this ? How express my happiness — my gratitude ? A 
moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. 

Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; but 
Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! 

Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
yourself. He- who seeks only for applause from without, 
has all his happiness in another's keeping. 

Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my 
errors : my vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing 
to offend any ; my meanness, in approving folly lest fools 
should disapprove. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my 
study to reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship 
for real merit ; and my love for her who first taught me 
what it is to be happy. [Exeunt omnes. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 267 



EPILOGUE.* 



SPOKEN BY MRS. BTJLKXEY. 



As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
To swear the pill or drop has wrought a cure ; 
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend. 
For epilogues and prologues on some friend, 
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
And teased each rhyming friend to help him out : 
An epilogue ! things can 't go on without it ! 
It could not fail, would you but set about it : 
i Young man,' cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 

* Alas ! young man, my writing days are over ! 
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 
Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 

* What I, dear sir?' the Doctor interposes, 

' What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 
JSTo, no, I 've other contests to maintain ; 
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-Lane. 
Go, ask your manager.' — 'Who, me ? Your pardon ; 
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden/ 

* The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at 
Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What 
is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the 
actress who spoke it. 



268 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance 
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
As some unhappy wight, at some new play, 
At the pit-door stands elbowing a way, 
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
Sinks as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
' To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm/ 
Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
And be each critic the Good-Matured Man. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 

A COMEDY. 

She Stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 15, 
1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. Gold- 
smith originally entitled it, The Old House a New Inn. 

DEDICATION. 

TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 

Dear Sir — By inscribing this slight performance to you, 
I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may 
do me some honor to inform the public, that I have lived 
many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests 
of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be 
found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected 
piety. 

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality 
to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not mere- 
ly sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who 
saw this piece, in its various stages, always thought it so. How- 
ever, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was 
necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason 
to be grateful. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most sincere friend and admirer, 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
23* 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN, 

Sir Charles Marlow. 
Young Marlow (his son.) 
Hardcastle. 



Tony Lumpkin. 
Diggory. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. 
Miss Hardcastle 
Miss Neville. 
Maid. 

Landlord, Servants, etc. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; 

OK, 
THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 

PROLOGUE. 

BY DAVID GARRJCK, ESQ. 

Mnter Mr. Woodward, dressed in Hack, and holding a 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can 't yet speak — 

I 'm crying now — and have been all the week. 

' 'Tis not alone this mourning suit,' good masters : 

I I 've that within,' for which there are no plasters ! 
Pray, would you know the reason why I 'm crying ? 
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-clying ! 

And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For, as a player, I can 't squeeze out one drop ; 
I am undone, that 's all — shall lose my bread — 
I 'd rather — but that 's nothing — lose my head. 
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. 
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. 
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; 
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments : 
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 



272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

We now and then take down a hearty cup. 

What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, 

They '11 turn us out, and no one else will take us. 

But why can 't I be moral ? Let me try : 

My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 

With a sententious look that nothing means 

(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes), 

Thus I begin, l All is not gold that glitters, 

Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 

When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 

Learning is better far than house or land. 

Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, 

And virtue is not virtue if she tumble.' 

I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 

To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. 

One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, 

A Doctor comes this night to show his skill ; 

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, 

He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion, 

A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured, 

If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : 

But desperate the Doctor's and her case is, 

If you reject the dose and make wry faces. 

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 

No pois'nous drugs are mixed in what he gives. 

Should he succeed, you '11 give him his degree ; 

If not, within he will receive no fee. 

The college, you, must his pretensions back, 

Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 

ACT FIRST. 

Scene 1 — a chamber in an old-fashioned house. 
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're very 
particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but 
ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, 
to rub off the rust a little ? There 's the two Miss Hoggs, 
and our neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's pol- 
ishing every winter. 

Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation 
to last them the whole year. I wonder why London can- 
not keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies 
of the town crept slowly apong us, but now they travel 
faster than a stage coach. \ Its fopperies come down not 
only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.^ 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times in- 
deed : you have been telling us of them for many a long 
year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that 
looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see 
company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the 
curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing- 
master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of 
Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate 
/such old-fashioned trumpery. C i 

Hardcastle. And I love it. I love every thing that 's 
old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old 
wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,) you '11 
own, I 've been pretty fond of an old wife. 






274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcasile. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 

ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may be 

a Darb y, but I '11 be no Joam I promise you. \ I 'm not so 

old as you 'd make me, by more than one good year. 

a Add twenty to twenty and make money of thab> 

Hardcastle. Let me see; twenty added to twenty 
makes just fifty and seven. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was 
but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that I 
had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he 's not 
come to years of discretion yet. 

Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, 
you have taught him finely ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a 
good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I 
do n't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen 
hundred a-year. 

Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of 
tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear, nothing but humor. 
Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little 
humor. 

Hardcastle. I 'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and 
worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but 
yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, 
and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in 
Mrs. Frizzle's face. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And am I to blame ? The poor boy 
was always too sickly to do any good. A school would 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 

be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who 
knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? 

Hardcastle. Latin for him I A cat and fiddle. No, 
no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll 
ever go to. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor 
boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. 
Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. 

Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
symptoms. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 

Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I 'm actually afraid of his lungs. 

Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes 
whoops like a speaking trumpet — ( Tony hallooing behind 
the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a very consumptive 
figure, truly ! 

Enter Tony, crossing the Stage. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony,* where are you going, my 
charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your 
company, lovey ? 

Tony. I 'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw eve- 
ning, my dear ; you look most shockingly. 

Tony. I can 't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons 
expects me down every moment. There's some fun go- 
ing forward. 

Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place ; I thought 
so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 



276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins, 
the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse-doctor, little Amin- 
adab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, that 
spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for 
one night at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much 
mind ; but I can 't abide to disappoint myself. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Detaining him.) You shan't go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We '11 see which is the strongest, you or I. 

[Exit, hauling her out. 

Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that only 
spoil each other. But is not the whole age in combina- 
tion to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There 's 
my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of the times have 
almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, 
she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best 
of them. 

Enter Me&* Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! drest 
out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! what a quantity of 
superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could 
never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world 
could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. 

Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. You 
allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to 
dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I put on 
my housewife's dress to please you. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 

Hardcastle. "Well, remember I insist on the terms of 
our agreement ; and, by the by, I believe I shall have 
occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I do n't comprehend 
your meaning. 

Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I ex- 
pect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your hus- 
band from town this very day. I have his father's letter, 
in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he in- 
tends to follow him shortly after. 

Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known some- 
thing of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave. It 's 
a thousand to one I shan't like him ; our meeting will be 
so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find 
no room for friendship or esteem. 

Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- 
trol your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched 
upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of 
whom you have heard me talk so often. The young 
gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an 
employment in the service of his country. I am told he's 
a man of an excellent understanding. 

Miss Hardcastle. Is he ? 

Hardcastle. Very generous. 

Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. Young and brave. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. And very handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing 
his hand) he 's mine — I '11 have him. 

Hardcastle. And, to crown all, Kate, he 's one of the 
24 




278 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
world. 

Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of 
his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always 
makes a suspicious husband. 

/^Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides 

' in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It 

was the very feature in his character that first struck me. 

Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking features 
to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, 
so handsome, and so every thing as you mention, I believe 
he '11 do still. I think I '11 have him. 

Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
It 's more than an even wager he may not have you. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mortify 
one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my 
heart at his indifference, I '11 only break my glass for its 
flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out 
for some less difficult admirer. 

Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, 
I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception : as we sel- 
dom see company, they want as much training as a com- 
pany of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he put 
last, but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured ; I 
like all that. But then, reserved and sheepish ; that 's 
much against him. Yet can 't he be cured of his timidity, 
by being taught to be proud of his wife ? Yes ; and can't 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 279 

I — But I vow I'm disposing of the husband, before I 
have secured the lover. 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm glad you 're come, Neville, my 
dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? 
Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it one of my 
well-looking days, child ? am I in face to day ? 

Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look 
again — bless me! — sure no accident has happened 
among the canary birds or the gold fishes ? Has your 
brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel 
been too moving ? 

Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have been 
threatened with a lover. 

Miss Neville. And his name 

Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 

Miss Neville. Indeed ! 

Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 

Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of 
Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. 
I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. 

Miss Hardcastle. Never. 

Miss Neville. He 's a very singular character, I as- 
sure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is 
the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give him 
a very different character among creatures of another 
stamp — you understand me. 

Miss Hardcastle. An odd character, indeed. I shall 
never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw ! 



280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. 
But how goes on your own affair, my dear ? has my 
mother been courting you for my brother Tony, as usual ? 

Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our agree- 
able tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender 
things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink 
of perfection. 

Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, that she 
actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small 
temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of 
it, I 'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out 
of the family." 

Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly con- 
sists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at 
any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no 
doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her 
suppose that I am in love with her son ; and she never 
once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. 

Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
I could almost love him for hating you so. 

Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, 
and I 'm sure would wish to see me married to any body 
but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's 
walk round the improvements. Allons ! Courage is 
necessary, as our affairs are critical. 

Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all were 
well. [Exeunt. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 281 

Scene n. — an alehouse room. 

Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony at 
the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mal- 
let in his hand. 

Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 

First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 
Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. 

Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 

Tony. Then I '11 sing you, gentlemen, a song I made 
upon this alehouse, The Three Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus a better discerning. 
Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
Their quis, and their quces, and their quods, 

They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

When methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
I '11 wager the rascals a crown, 

They always preach best with a skinful. 
But when you come down with your pence, 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I '11 leave it to all men of sense, 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Then come, put the jorum about, 

And let us be merry and clever, 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 

Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 

24* 



^ 



282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 

But of all the birds in the air, 
Here 's health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in him. 

Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he 
never gives us nothing that 's low. 

Third Fellow. Oh, damn any thing that 's low, I can- 
not bear it. 

Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel thing 
at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in a concate- 
nation accordingly. 

Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master Mug- 
gins. What though I am obligated to dance a bear, a 
man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my 
poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteel- 
est of tunes ; i "Water Parted/ or t The minuet in Ariadne.' 

Second Fellow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans 
within ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I 'd then 
show what it was to keep choice of company. 

Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father for 
that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the finest 
gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the 
straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare or a wench, 
he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, 
that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole 
county. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 283 

Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age, I '11 be no bastard, 
I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer 
and the miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, my 
boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckon- 
ing. Well, Stingo, what 's the matter ? 



/ Lan 



Enter Landlord. 



/■ Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
at the door. They have lost their way upon the forest ; 
and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the 
gentleman that 's coming down to court my sister. Do 
they seem to be Londoners ? 

Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily 
like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I '11 set 
them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord. 

Gentlemen, as they may n't be good enough company for 
you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you in the 
squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob. 

Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me 
whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I 
could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But 
then I 'm afraid — afraid of what ? I shall soon be worth 
fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of that 
if he can. 

Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. 
Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we 
had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across 
the country, and we have come above threescore. 



284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. And all, Marlow, from tha,t unaccountable 
reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more fre- 
quently on the way. 

Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay my- 
self under an obligation to every one I meet ; and often 
stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 

Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to 
receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm told you have 
been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these parts. 
Do you know what part of the country you are in ? 

Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you 
for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came ? 

Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road 
you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, 
the first thing I have to inform you is, that — you have 
lost your way. 

Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask 
the place from whence you came ? 

Marlow. That 's not necessary towards directing us 
where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, 
you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle 
a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an 
ugly face : a daughter, and a pretty son ? 

Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he 
has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talk- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 285 

ative maypole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable 
youth, that every body is fond of? 

Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daugh- 
ter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an awk- 
ward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron- 
string. 

Tony. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I have to 
tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house 
this night, I believe. 

Hastings. Unfortunate ! 

Tony. It 's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, danger- 
ous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. 
Hardcastle's (winking upon tlie Landlord), Mr. Hard- 
castle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand me ? 

Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
masters, you 're come a deadly deal wrong ! When you 
came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed 
down Squash Lane. 

Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane? 

Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
till you came to four roads. 

Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ? 

Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of 
them. 

Marlow. O sir, you 're facetious. 

Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go side- 
ways, till you come upon Crack-skull common : there you 
must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward 
till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the 
farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to 



286 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

the left, and then to the right about again, till you find 
out the old mill 

Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the 
longitude. 

Hastings. What 's to be done, Marlow ? 

Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 

Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed 
in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that 's taken up by three 
lodgers already. (After a pause in which the rest seem 
disconcerted) I have hit it : do n't you think, Stingo, our 
landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire- 
side, with — three chairs and a bolster ? 

Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 

Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. 

Tony. , You do, do you ?— then, let me see, — what if 
you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old 
Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole 
country. 

Hastings. ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
for this night, however. 

Landlord. (Apart t& Tony.) Sure, you ben't sending 
them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 

Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. 
(To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, 
till you come to a large old house by the road side. 
You '11 see a pair of large horns over the door. That 's 
the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. 

Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants 
can 't miss the way ? 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 287 

Tony, No, no : but I tell you though the landlord is 
rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants to be 
thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! he ! 
He '11 be for giving you his company ; and, ecod, if you 
mind him, he '11 persuade you that his mother was an al- 
derman, and his aunt a justice of peace. 

Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but 
as keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole 
country. 

Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, 
did you say ? 

Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I '11 just step myself, 
and show you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) 
Mum! 

Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant 
damned mischievous son of a whore. [ Exeunt. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene I. — an old-fashioned house. 

Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward 
Servants. 

Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table 
exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You 
all know your posts and your places, and can show that 
you have been used to good company, without ever stir- 
ring from home. 



288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not to pop 
out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits 
in a warren. 

Omnes. No, no. 

Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
the barn, are to make a show at the side table; and you, 
Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to 
place yourself behind my chair. But you "re not to stand 
so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands 
from your pockets, Roger — and from your head, you 
blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. 
They 're little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 

Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 
hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the 
malitia. And so being upon drill — 

Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
You must be all attention to the guests ; you must hear 
us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us Jrink, 
and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not 
think of eating. 

Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that *s parfectly 
unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going for- 
ward, ecod, he 's always wishing for a mouthful himself. 

Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a bellyful in the kitch- 
en as good as a bellyful in the parlor ? Stay your stom- 
ach with that reflection. 

Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a 
shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the 
pantry. 

Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 

I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story, at table, 
you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made 
part of the company. 

Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the 
story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; I can 't help 
laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me. 
We have laughed at that these twenty years — ha! ha! 
ha! 

Harckastk. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ; but still 
remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company 
should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? A 
glass of wine, sir, if you please, ( To Digjjory) — Eh, 
why do n't you move ? 

Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage, 
till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the ta- 
ble, and then I 'm as bauld as a lion. 

Hardcastle. What, will nobody move ? 

First Servant I 'm not to leave this pleace. 

Second Servant I 'm sure it 's no pleace of mine. 

Third Servant Nor mine, for sartain. 

Diggory. Wauns, and I 'm sure it canna be mine. 

HardcastU. You numskulls ! and so while, like your 
betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be 
starved. O you dunces ! I find I must begin all over 

again But do n't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? 

To your posts, you blockheads. I '11 go in the mean time, 
and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the 
gate. \Exit Hardcastle. 

Diggory. By the elevens, my place is quite gone out 
of my head. 

25 



290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Soger. I know that my place is to be every where. 
First Servant. "Where the devil is mine ? 
Second Servant. My pleace is to be no where at all ; 
and so Ize go about my business. 

[Exeunt Servants, running about, as if 
frightened, several ways. 

Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow and 



Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This 
way. 

Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, wel- 
come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room 
and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking 
house : antique, but creditable. 

Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having 
first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last 
comes to levy contributions as an inn. 

Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side- 
board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put 
in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. 

Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places ; 
the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly 
for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. 

Hastings. You have lived pretty much among them. 
In truth I have been often surprised, that you who have 
seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, 
and your many opportunities ? could never yet acquire a 
requisite share of assurance. 

Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 

George, where could I have learned that assurance you 
talk of ? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or 
an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation 
that chiefly teach men confidence. I do n't know that I 
was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest wo- 
man, except my mother. — But among females of another 

class, you know 

^Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent enough, 
of all conscience. 

Marlow, They are of us, you know. 

Hastings. But in the company of women of reputation 
I never saw such an idiot — such a trembler ; you look 
for all the world as if you wanted an opportunity of steal- 
ing out of the room. 

Marlow. Why, man, that 's because I do want to steal 
out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution 
to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I 
do n't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes 
lias totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow 
may counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged if a modest 
man can ever counterfeit impudence. 

Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things to 
them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of 
an inn, or even a college bed-maker 

Marlow. Why, George, I can 't say fine things to 
them — they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of 
a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle ; 
but to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is 
the most tremendous object of the whole creation. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can 
you ever expect to marry ? 



292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Never ; unless, as among kings and princes, 
my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like 
an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a 
wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to 
go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together 
with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and 
at last to blurt out the broad staring question of ' Madam, 
will you many me ? ' No, no, that *t a strain much above 
me, I assure you. 

Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
having to the lady you are come down to visit at the re- 
quest of your father ? 

Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very 
low ; answer yes, or no, to all her demands. But for the 
rest, I do n't think I shall venture to look in her face till 
I see my father's again. 

Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is so warm a 
friend, can be so cool a lover. 

Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief 
inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding 
your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, 
the family do n't know you ; as my friend, you are sure 
of a reception, and let honor do the rest. 

Hastings. My dear Marlow ! — But I '11 suppress the 
emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a 
fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would 
apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all 
I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's 
consent, and her own inclination. 

Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art to 
captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 293 

and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. 
This stammer in my address, and this awkward unpre- 
possessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar 
above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the 
Duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to 
interrupt us. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily 
welcome. It 's not my way, you see, to receive my friends 
with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty 
reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their 
horses and trunks taken care of. 

Marlow, (Aside.) He has got our names from the 
servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution 
and hospitality, sir. ( To Hastings.) I have been think- 
ing, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the 
morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. 

Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you '11 use no ceremo- 
ny in this house. 

Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first 
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign 
with the white and gold. 

Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
men — pray be under no restraint in this house. This is 
Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please 
here. 

Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too 
fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. 
I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. 
25* 



294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we 
went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the gar- 
rison 

Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
will do with the plain brown ? 

Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, which 
might consist of about five thousand men 

Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very 
poorly. 

Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he 
summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five 
thousand men 

Marlow. The girls like finery. 

Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five thou- 
sand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and 
other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marl- 
borough to George Brooks, that stood next to him — You 
must have heard of George Brooks — 'I'll pawn my 
dukedom/ says he f l but I take that garrison without spill- 
ing a drop of blood.' So 

Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass 
of punch in the mean time ; it would help us to carry on 
the siege with vigor. 

Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most 
unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 

Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, 
after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty- 
hall, you know. 

Enter Roger with a cup, 

Hardcastle. Here 's a cup, sir. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 

Marlow. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty -hall, 
will only let us have just what he pleases. 

Hardcastle. ( Taking the cup.) I hope you '11 find it to 
your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and 
I believe you '11 own the ingredients are tolerable. Will 
you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? Here, Mr. Marlow, 
here is to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.) 

Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ; but 
he 's a character, and I '11 humor him a little. Sir, my 
service to you. (Drinks.) 

Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
us his company, and forgets that he 's an innkeeper, be- 
fore he has learned to be a gentleman. 

Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this 
part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elec- 
tions, I suppose. 

Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work over. 
Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing 
each other, there is no business ' for us that sell ale.' 

Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I 
find. 

Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, in- 
deed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, 
like other people ; but, finding myself every day grow 
more angry, and the government growing no better, I left 
it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head 
about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croak- 
er. Sir, my service to you. 

Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and drink- 
ing below, with receiving your friends within and amus- 



296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

ing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling 
life of it. 

Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that 's cer- 
tain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in 
this very parlor. 

Marlow. (After drinking.) And you have an argu- 
ment in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in West- 
minster-hall. 

Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
philosophy. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever 
heard of an inkeeper's philosophy. 

Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, you 
attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason 
manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; if you 
find they have no reason, you attack them with this. 
Here 's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) 

Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Jour generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, 
when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You 
*hall hear. 

Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe 
it 's almost time to talk about supper. What has your 
philosophy got in the house for supper ? 

Hardcastle. For supper, sir! (Aside.) Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house ! 

Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an ap- 
petite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, 
I promise you. 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my 
eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, really, sir, as for supper, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 

I can 't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook -maid settle 
these things between them. I leave these kind of things 
entirely to them. 

Marlow. You do, do you ? 

Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are 
in actual consultation upon what 's for supper this mo- 
ment in the kitchen. 

Marlow. Then I beg they '11 admit me as one of their 
privy-council. It 's a way I have got. When I travel I 
always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook 
be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 

Hardcastle. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I do n't 
know how, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very com- 
municative upon these occasions. Should we send for 
her, she might scold us all out of the house. 

Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, then. I 
ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my 
bill of fare. 

Marlow. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them with sur- 
prise.) Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way too. 

Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's sup- 
per : I believe it 's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. Has- 
tings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It 
was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper 
till he had eaten it. 

Enter Roger. 

Hastings. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His 
uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being 
a justice of the peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. 

Marlow. (Perusing.) What 's here ? For the first 



298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The 
devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole 
Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat 
up such a supper ? Two or three little things, clean and 
comfortable, will do. 

Hastings. But let 's hear it. 

Marlow. (Reading.) 'For the first course, — at the 
top, a pig, and pruin-sauce.' 

Hastings. Damn your pig, I say. 

Marlow. And damn your pruin-sauce, say I. 

Hardcasile. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hun- 
gry, pig with pruin-sauce is very good eating. 

Marlow. 'At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.' 

Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my good 
sir, I do n't like them. 

Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by them- 
selves. 

Hardcasile. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. 
( To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what 
alterations you please. Is there any thing else you wish 
to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 

Marlow. « Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sau- 
sages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff 
— taff — taffety cream ! ' 

Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as 
much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow din- 
ner at the French ambassador's table. I 'm for plain 
eating. 

« Hardcasile. I 'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing 
you like ; but if there be any thing you have a particular 
fancy to 

Marlow. Why, really sir, your bill of fare is so ex- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 290 

quisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. 
Send us what you please. So much for supper. And 
now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken 
care of. 

Hardcastle. I entreat you '11 leave all that to me. You 
shall not stir a step. 

Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you must 
excuse me : I always look to these things myself. 

Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you '11 make yourself 
easy on that head. 

Marlow. You see I 'm resolved on it. {Aside.) A 
very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 

Hardcastle. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to attend 

you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, but I 

never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. 

\Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 

Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities 
begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at 
those assiduities which are meant to please him ? Ha ! 
what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that 's happy ! 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Neville. My dear Hastings! To what unex- 
pected good fortune — to what accident, am I to ascribe 
this happy meeting ? 

Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as I 
could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance 
at an inn. 

3Iiss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, 
my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
think this house an inn ? 



300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came 
down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure 
you. A young fellow whom we accidentally met at a 
house hard by, directed us hither. 

Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful 
cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ; 
ha! ha! ha! 

Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he 
of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 

Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, I 
assure you. You 'd adore him if you knew how heartily 
he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has underta- 
ken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she 
has made a conquest. 

Hastings. Thou dear dissembler! You must know, 
my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity 
of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. 
The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with 
their journey, but they '11 soon be refreshed ; and, then, if 
my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall 
soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the 
laws of marriage are respected. 

Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though ready 
to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind 
with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by 
my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jew- 
els. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to 
let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very near succeeding. 
The instant they are put into my possession, you shall 
find me ready to make them and myself yours. 

Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 

desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must not 
be let into his mistake. I know the strange reserve of 
his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he 
would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe 
for execution. 

Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the de- 
ception? — Miss Hardcastle is just returned from walk- 
ing — What if we still continue to deceive him ? — This, 
this way [ They confer. ( 

H 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill man- 
ners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself, 
but his old-fashioned^ wife on my back. They talk of 
coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are 
to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. 
What have we got here ? 

Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
you — The most fortunate accident ! — Who do you think 
is just alighted ? 

Marlow. Cannot guess. 

Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and 
Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- 
stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to dine 
in the neighborhood, they called on their return to take 
fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the 
next room, and will be back in an instant. Was n't it 
lucky? eh! 

Marlow. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
26 



302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

all conscience, and here comes something to complete my 
embarrassment. 

Hastings. Well, but was n't it the most fortunate thing 
in the world ? 

Marlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful 
encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are in 
disorder — What if we should postpone the happiness till 
to-morrow ? — To-morrow at her own house — It will be 
every bit as convenient — and rather more respectful — 
To-morrow let it be. [ Offering to go. 

Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will 
displease her. The disorder otf your dress will show the 
ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are 
in the house, and will permit you to see her. 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! How shall I support it ? — 
Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are to 
assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. 
Yet hang it ! I '11 take courage. Hem ! 

Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it 's but the first plunge, and 
all 's over. She 's but a woman, you know. 

Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most to 
encounter. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 

Hastings. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. 
Marlow, I 'm proud of bringing two persons of such mer- 
it together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Now for meeting my mod- 
est gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own 
manner. (After a -pause, in which he appears very uneasy 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 303 

and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir. 
I 'm told you had some accidents by the way. 

Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. 
Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry 
— madam — or rather glad of any accidents — ■■ that are 
so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hastings. ( To him.) You never spoke better in your 
whole life. Keep it up, and I '11 insure you the victory. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
that have seen so much of the finest company, can find 
little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. 

Marlow. ( Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, 
in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little compa- 
ny. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while 
others were enjoying it. 

Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy 
it at last. 

Hastings. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. 
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. 

Marlow. (To him.) Hem! stand by me then, and 
when I 'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 
again. 

Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, 
were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have 
had much more to censure than to approve. 

Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing 
to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an ob- 
ject of mirth than uneasiness. 

Hastings. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see 
that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good com- 



304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

pany. I believe our being here will but embarrass the 
interview. 

Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
your company of all things. (To Mm.) Zounds! 
George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? 

Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so 
we'll retire to the next room. (To Mm.) You do n't 
consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete 
of our own. [Exeunt. 

Miss Hardcastle. (After a pause.) But you have not 
been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, I 
should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. 

Marlow. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, mad- 
am, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — de- 
serve them. 

Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very worst 
way to obtain them. 

Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse 
only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex — 
But I 'm afraid I grow tiresome. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I 
like so much as grave conversation myself; I could hear 
it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised how a 
man of sentiment could ever admire those light, airy 
pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 

Marlow. It 's a disease of the mind, madam. 

In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting 
a relish for um — u — um — 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There must 
be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pre- 
tend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 305 

Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
expressed. And I can 't help observing a 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose 
this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! ( To him.) 
You were going to observe, sir 

Marlow. I was observing, madam — I protest, mad- 
am, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To 
him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hy- 
pocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, 
there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — 
a 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Egad ! and that 's more than I do 
myself. 

Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocritical 
age, there are a few that do not condemn in public what 
they practise in private, and think they pay every debt 
to virtue when they praise it. 

Marlow. True, madam ; those who have most virtue 
in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But 
I 'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir ; there 's some- 
thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life 
and force — Pray, sir, go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was saying -that there 

are some occasions — when a total want of courage, mad- 
am, destroys all the and puts us upon — a — 

a — a 

Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely : a want 
26* 



306 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appearance 
of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to ex- 
cel. I beg you '11 proceed. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam — 
but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I 
would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was more 
agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons 

us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor to 
attend you ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I '11 follow. 

Marlow. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
done for me. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. {Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there 
ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I 'm certain 
he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the 
fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well 
too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, 
that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could 
teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody 
that I know of a piece of service. But who is that some- 
body ? That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. 

[Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hardcastle 
and Hastings. 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con? I 
wonder you 're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 

Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's 
own relations, and not be to blame. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 307 

Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
want to make me though ; but it won't do. I tell you, 
cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you '11 keep your dis- 
tance — I want no nearer relationship. 

\_She follows, coquetting him to the back scene. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are 
very entertaining. There 's nothing in the world I love 
to talk of so much as London, and the fashions ; though 
I was never there myself. 

Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your 
air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your 
life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, sir, you 're only pleased to say 
so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I 'm 
in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above 
some of our neighboring rustics ; but who can have a 
manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto 
Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where the nobili- 
ty chiefly resort ? All I can do is to enjoy London at 
second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from 
the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as 
they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of 
Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you like this head, Mr. 
Hastings ? 

Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last 
year. 

Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the 



308 SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

play-house, would draw as many gazers as my Lady 
Mayoress at a city ball. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inocula^on began, there 
is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so one 
must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the 
crowd. 

Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, in 
any dress. (Bowing.) 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing, when 
I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hard- 
castle ? all I can say will never argue down a single but- 
ton from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw 
off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plas- 
ter it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 

Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among the 
ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are 
none old. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his answer 
was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I 
only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into a 
tcte for my own wearing. 

Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 

Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but 
I 'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing 
winter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? Then I shall be too 
young for the fashion. 

Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 

she 's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite 
circle, would be considered as a child — a mere maker of 
samplers. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, my niece thinks herself as 
much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of 
us all. 

Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young gen- 
tleman — a brother of yours, I should presume ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are contracted 
to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in 
and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and wife 
already. {To them.) Well, Tony, child, what soft things 
are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening ? 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
it 's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I 've not 
a place in the house now that 's left to myself, but the 
stable. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my dear : he's 
in another story behind your back. 

Miss Neville. There 's something generous in my 
cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be forgiven 
in private. 

Tony. Thai 's a damned confounded — crack. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he 's a sly one. Do n't you 
think they 're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Has- 
tings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a 
size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings 
may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. 

(Measuring.) 

Miss Neville. lud ! he has almost cracked my head. 



310 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shame, Tony, 
You a man, and behave so ! 

Tony. If I 'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod ! 
I '11 not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I 'm 
to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? I 
that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty 
mouth with a spoon ? Did not I work that waistcoat to 
make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every 
day, and weep while the receipt w r as operating ? 

Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have 
been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone 
through every receipt in the Complete Housewife ten 
times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through 
Quincey next spring. But, ecod ! I tell you, I' 11 not be 
made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was n't it all for your good, viper ? 
"Was n't it all for your good ? 

Tony. I wish you 'd let me and my good alone, then. 
Snubbing this way when I 'm in spirits ! If I 'm to have 
any good, let it come of itself; not to keep dinging it, 
dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. That 's false ; I never see you when 
you 're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse 
or kennel. I 'm never to be delighted with your agreea- 
ble wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 

Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wild- 
est of the two. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the like? But I see lie 
wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 

Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 311 

young gentleman a little. I 'm certain I can persuade 
him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, Con- 
stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretched- 
ness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued 
with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy ! 

[Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 

Tony. (Singing.) 

There was a young man riding by, 
And fain would have his will. 

Eang do didlo dee. 

Do n't mind her. Let her cry.. It 's the comfort of 
her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book 
for an hour together ; and they said they liked the book 
the better the more it made them cry. 

Hastings. Then you 're no friend to the ladies, I find, 
my pretty young gentleman ? 

Tony. That 's as I find 'um. 

Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare 
answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tem- 
pered girl. 

Tony. That 's because you do n't know her as well 
as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there's 
not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all Christendom. 

Hastings. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement for a lover ! 

Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She 
has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the 
first day's breaking. 

Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 



312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she "s with 
/her playmates, she 's as loud as a hog in a gate. 

Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her that 
charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, 
and you 're flung in a ditch. 

Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. 
Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 

Tony. Bandbox ! She 's all a made-up thing, mun. 
Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you 
might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as 
black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit 
cushion. She 'd make two of she. 

Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would 
take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 

Tony. Anan ! 

Hastings. Would you thank him that would take Miss 
Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsey? 

Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend — for 
who would take her ? 

Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage 
to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more 
of her. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will to the last drop of 
my blood. I '11 clap a pair of horses to your chaise that 
shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may be get you 
a part of her fortin besides, in jewels, that you little 
dream of. 

Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of 
spirit. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 313 

Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of 
my spirit before you have done with me. {Singing.) 

We are the boys 

That fears no noise, 

Where the thundering cannons roar. 



ACT THIRD. 

t Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
mean by recommending his son as the modestest young 
man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent 
piece of brass that ever spoke witli a tongue. He has 
taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. 
He took off his boots in the parlor, and desired me to see 
them taken care of. I 'm desirous to know how his im- 
pudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shock- 
ed at it. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 

Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no 
great occasion. 

Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obey- 
ing your commands, that I take care to observe them 
without ever debating their propriety. 

Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
27 



314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest 
gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect something 
extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the de- 
scription. 

Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life ! He 
has quite confounded all my faculties. 

Miss Hardcastle. I never saw any thing like it ; and 
a man of the world, too ! 

Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a fool 
was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by 
travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. 

Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. 

Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company and 
a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa. A French 
dancing-master could never have taught him that timid 
look — that awkward address — that bashful manner. 

Hardcastle. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise hmte, 
his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you : for I 
think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever 
astonished my senses. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
any one so modest. 

Hardcastle. And can you be serious ? I never saw 
such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. 
Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Miss Hardcastle. Surprising ! He met me with a re- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 315 

spectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the 
ground. 

Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, 
and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 

Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and 
respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired the 
prudence of girls that never laughed, tired me with apol- 
ogies for being tiresome, then left the room with a bow, 
and ' Madam, I would not for the world detain you.' 

Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
life before, asked twenty questions, and never waited for 
an answer, interrupted my best remarks with some silly 
pun, and when I was in my best story of the Duke of 
Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not 
a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your 
father if he was a maker of punch. 

Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
taken. 

Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, I 'm 
determined he shall never have my consent. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I take 
him, he shall never have mine. 

Hardcastle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
reject him. 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For if 
you should find him less impudent, and I more presum- 
ing ; if you find him more respectful, and I more impor- 
tunate — I do n't know — the fellow is well enough for a 
man — certainly we do n't meet many such at a horse-race 
in the country. 

Hardcastle. If we should find him so -But that 's 



/ 



316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

impossible. The first appearance has done my business. 
I 'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good 
qualities under that first appearance. 

Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to 
her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his fur- 
niture. With her a smooth face stands for good sense, 
and a genteel figure for every virtue. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with a 
sneer at my understanding ! 

Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he 
may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
what if we go to make farther discoveries ? 

Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
right. 

Miss Hardcastle. And, depend on 't, I 'm not much in 
the wrong. \Exeunt. 

Enter Tony, running in with a casket. 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My 
cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't 
cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O my 
genus, is that you ? 

Miter Hastings. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 317 

pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing 
to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be refreshed in 
a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off. 

Tony. And here 's something to bear your charges by 
the way — (giving the casket) — your sweetheart's jewels. 
Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of 
one of them. 

Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
your mother ? 

Tony. Ask me no questions, and I '11 tell you no fibs. 
I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a 
key to every draw in my mother's bureau, how could I go 
to the alehouse so often as I do ? An honest man may 
rob himself of his own at any time. 

Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure 
them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, 
it will be the most delicate way, at least, of obtaining 
them. 

Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. 
But I know how it will be well enough, — she'd as soon 
part with the only sound tooth in her head. 

Hastings. But I dread the effects of. her resentment, 
when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment ; leave me to 
manage that. I do n't value her resentment the bounce 
of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice ! Prance ! 

[Exit Hastings. 

Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 

27* 



318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough 
for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beau- 
ty begins to want repairs. 

Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. 
That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. 
Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you 
see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill- 
daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry 
their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and 
marcasites back ? 

Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but somebody 
that shall be nameless would like me best with all my 
little finery about me ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and then 
see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better 
sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear ? Does 
your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off 
her beauty ? 

Tony. That 's as hereafter may be. 

Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would 
oblige me. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
table-cut things. They would make you look like the 
court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I be- 
lieve I can 't readily come at them. They may be miss- 
ing for aught I know to the contrary. 

Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't 
you tell her so at once, as she 's so longing for them ? Tell 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 

her they 're lost. It 's the only way to quiet her. Say 
they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
dear, I 'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they 
are gone, you '11 bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I '11 say I saw them 
taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam — 
just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they 
may be locked up again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear Con- 
stance, if I could find them you should have them. They 
are missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but 
we must have patience, wherever they are. 

Miss Neville. I '11 not believe it ; this is but a shallow 
pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be 
so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss — 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Do n't be alarmed, Constance. If 
they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son 
knows they are missing, and not to be found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, 
and not to be found ; I '11 take my oath on 't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my dear ; 
for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our 
patience. See me, how calm I am. 

Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We 
shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall 
make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. 



320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen 
how well they look upon me. You shall have them. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You shan't 
stir. "Was ever any thing so provoking, to mislay my 
own jewels, 'and force me to wear her trumpery ? 

Tony. Do n't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, 
take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. 
I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not 
know it. Fly to your spark ; he '11 tell you more of the 
matter. Leave me to manage her. 

Miss Neville. My dear cousin 1 

Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has missed them al- 
ready. [Exit Miss Neville.'] Zounds ! how she fidgets 
and spits about like a Catharine wheel I 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 

Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mam- 
ma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good 
family ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I 'm undone. 

Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the laws, 
I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought 
you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 321 

Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. I '11 
bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that's 
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for 
ever. 

Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I am to say so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
They 're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to 
laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a blockhead, 
that can 't tell the difference between jest and earnest ! I 
tell you I 'm not in jest, booby. 

Tony. That 's right, that 's right ; you must be in a 
bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. 
I '11 bear witness that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross-grained 
brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear witness that 
you 're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so 
beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you blockhead, 
you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. My 
poor niece, what will become of her? Do you laugh, 
you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster? I'll 
teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. (He runs off, she 
follows him.) 



322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 

Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature is 
that brother of mine, to send them to the house "as an inn ; 
ha ! ha ! I do n't wonder at his impudence. 

Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentle- 
man, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me 
if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the bar- 
maid, madam ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as I live, I 'm re- 
solved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how 
do you like my present dress ? Do n't you think I look 
something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem ? 

Maid. It 's the dress, madam, that every lady wears 
in the country, but when she visits or receives company. 

Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not re- 
member my face or person ? 

Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though we 
spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such that 
he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, 
if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing 
me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in 
his mistake ? 

Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her 
face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaint- 
ance, and that 's no small victory gained over one who 
never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But 
my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, and, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 

like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's 
force before I offer to combat. 

Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and 
disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he 
has already mistaken your person ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have got 
the true bar cant — Did your honor call ? — Attend the 
Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The 
Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. 

Maid, It will do, madam. But he 's here. 

[Exit Maid, 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the house ! 
I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best 
room, there I find my host and his story ; if I fly to the 
gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down 
to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, 
and now for recollection. [ Walks and muses. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir ? Did your honor 
call ? 

Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she 's 
too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? 

[She still places herself before him, 
he turning away. 

Marlow. ~ No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the 
glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
ring. 

Marlow. No, no. (Musing.) I have pleased my 



324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow 
please myself by returning. ( Taking out his tablets and 
perusing.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman called, 
sir? 

Marhw. I tell you no. 

Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir : we 
have such a parcel of servants. 

Marlow. No, no, I tell you, (Looks full in her face) 
Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I 
vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. la, sir, you '11 make one ashamed. 

Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious eye. 
Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of 
your — a — what d'ye call it, in the house? 

Miss Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that 
these ten days. 

Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to very 
little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by 
way of trial, of the nectar of your lips, perhaps I might 
be disappointed in that too. 

Miss Hardcastle. Nectar ! nectar ! That 's a liquor 
there 's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. 
We keep no French wines here, sir. 

Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know it. 
AVe brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have 
lived here these eighteen years. 

Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old 
are you ? 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 325 

Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
They say women and music should never be dated. 

Marhw. To guess at this distance, you can't be much 
above forty. (Approaching) Yet nearer, I do n't think 
so much. (Approaching) By coming close to some 
women, they look younger still ; but when we come very 
close indeed — (Attempting to kiss her.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
would think you wanted to know one's age as they do 
horses, by mark of mouth. 

Marhw. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. 
If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you 
and I can ever be acquainted ? 

Miss Hardcastk. And who wants to be acquainted 
with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I 'm 
sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. I '11 warrant 
me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the 
ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you were be- 
fore a justice of the peace. 

Marhw. {Aside) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! 
(To her) In awe of her, child? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere 
awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you do n't 
know me. I laughed and rallied her a little ; but I was 
unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, 
curse me I 

Miss Hardcastk. Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite, I 
find, among the ladies ? 

Marhw, Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, 
hang me, I do n't see what they find in me to follow. At 
the ladies' club in town I 'm called their agreeable Rattle. 
28 



326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I 'm known 
by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at 
your service. ( Offering to salute her.) 

Miss Ilardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me to 
your club, not to yourself. And you 're so great a favor- 
ite there, you say ? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. Mantrap, 
Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Lang- 
horns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble serv- 
ant, keep up the spirit of the place. 

Miss Ilardcastle. Then it's a very merry place, I 
suppose ? 

Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and 
old women can make us. 

Miss Hardcasile. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Marlow. (Aside) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. 
She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? 

Miss Hardcasile. I can't but laugh to think what time 
they all have for minding their work, or their family. 

Marlow. (Aside) All *s well ; she don't laugh at me. 
(To her) Do you ever work, child ? 

Miss Ilardcastle. Aye, sure. There *s not a screen or 
a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to 
that. 

Marlow. Odso ! then you must show me your em- 
broidery. 1 embroider and draw patterns myself a little. 
If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to 
me. (Seizing her hand.) 

Miss Ilardcastle. Ay, but the colors do n't look well 
by candle-light, You shall see all in the morning. 
{Struggling.) 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 327. 

Marlow. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty 
fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! the father 
here ! My old luck : »I never nicked seven that I did not 
throw ames ace three times following.* 

\_Exit Marlow. 

Enter Hardcastle, ivho stands in surprise. 

Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your modest 
lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes 
fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. 
Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father 
so? 

Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but he 's 
still the modest man I first took him for ; you '11 be con- 
vinced of it as well as I. 

Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
impudence is infectious ! Did n't I see him seize your 
hand? Didn't I see him bawl you about like a milk- 
maid ? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, 
forsooth ] 

Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you of his 
modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with 
time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope 
you '11 forgive him. 

Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
mad ! I tell you I '11 not be convinced. I am convinced. 
He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he 

* Ames ace, or ambs ace, is two aces thrown at the same time 
on two dice. As seven is the main, to throw ames ace thrice run- 
ning, when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, 

is singularly bad lack. 



328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You 
may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my son- 
in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to convince 
you. 

Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for I 
have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 

Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I hope 
to satisfy you. 

Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I '11 
have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do 
you mind me. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found that 
I considered your commands as my pride ; for your kind- 
ness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. 

[ExeunL 



ACT FOUETH. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hastings. You surprise me : Sir Charles Marlow ex- 
pected here this night ! Where have you had your in- 
formation ? 

Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw 
his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he in- 
tends setting out in a few hours after his son. 

Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be complet- 
ed before he arrives. He knows me; and should he 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 329 

find me here, would discover my name, and, perhaps, my 
designs, to the rest of the family. 

Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? 

Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
iv ho keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
I '11 go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had 
the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and if I 
should not see him again, will write him further direc- 
tions. \_Exit. 

Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the mean 
time, I '11 go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a 
violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 

Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 

Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean by send- 
ing me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, 
when he knows the only place I have is the seat of a post- 
coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with 
the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have you put it into 
her own hands ? 

Servant. Yes, your honor. 

Marlow. She said she 'd keep it safe, did she ? 

Servant. Yes ; she said she 'd keep it safe enough. 
She asked me how I came by it ; and she said she had a 
great mind to make me give an account of myself. 

[Exit Servant. 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, however. 

What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 

amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my mind 

most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the 

28* 



330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

rest of the family. She 's mine, she must be mine, or 
I 'm greatly mistaken. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I 
intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Mar- 
low here, and in spirits too ! 

Marlow. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow 
me with laurels : Well, George, after all, we modest 
fellows don't want for success among the women. 

Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what suc- 
cess has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, 
that it grows so insolent upon us ? 

Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, 
little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of 
keys to its girdle ? 

Hastings. Well, and what then ? 

Marlow. She 's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such 
motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she would not 
let me kiss them though. 

Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of 
her? 

Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. 

Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob 
a woman of her honor ? 

Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor of 
the bar-maid of an inn. I do n't intend to rob her, take 
my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I sha n't 
honestly pay for. 

Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 331 

Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man in 
the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 

Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket 
I sent you to lock up ? It 's in safety ? 

Marlow. Yes, yes ; it 's safe enough. I have taken 
care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post- 
coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numscull ! 
I have taken better precautions for you than you did for 
yourself — I have « — 

Hastings. What ? 

Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for 
you. 

Hastings. To the landlady ! 

Marlow. The landlady. 

Hastings. You did ? 

Marlow. I did. She 's to be answerable for its forth- 
coming, you know. 

Hastings. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a witness. 

Marlow. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow 
that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 

Hastings. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 

Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though, me- 
thinks. Sure nothing has happened ? 

Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits 
in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, 
no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. 

Marlow. Rather too readily; for she not only kept 
the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going 
to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They 're safe, however. 

Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 



332 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him) 
Well, Charles, I '11 leave you to your meditations on the 
pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be as suc- 
cessful for yourself as you have been for me ! 

\Exit. 

Marlow. -Thank ye, George : I ask no more. — Ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Enter Hardcasile. 

Hardcastle. I no longer know my own house. It 's 
turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk al- 
ready. I '11 bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect 
for his father, I'll be calm. (To him) Mr. Marlow, your 
servant. I'm your very humble servant. (Bowing 
low.) 

Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What 
is to be the wonder now ? 

Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your 
father's son, sir. I hope you think so ? 

Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much 
entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome 
wherever he goes. 

Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But 
though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your 
servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is 
setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. 

Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault 
of mine. If they do n't drink as they ought, they are to 
blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 333 

assure you. (To the side-scene) Here, let one of my 
servants come up. (To him) My positive directions 
were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make 
up for my deficiencies below. 

Hardcasile. Then they had your orders for what they 
do ? I 'm satisfied ! 

Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear it 
from one of themselves. 

Enter Servant, drunk. 

Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! What 
were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, 
and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the 
house ? 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 

Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street 
forever ! Though I 'm but a servant, I 'm as good as 
another man. I '11 drink for no man before supper, sir, 
damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a 

good supper will not sit upon hiccup upon my 

conscience, sir. [Exit. 

Marlow. You see my old friend, the fellow is as drunk 
as he can possibly be. I do n't know what you 'd have 
more, unless you 'd have the poor devil soused in a beer- 
barrel. 

Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I 
contain myself any longer ! Mr. Marlow : sir, I have 
submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and 
I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I 'm now re- 
solved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and 
your drunken pack may leave my house directly. 



334 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
good friend ? "What ! when I am doing what I can to 
please you. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you do n't please ; so I de- 
sire you will leave my house. 

Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time o' 
night, and such a night ? You only. mean to banter me. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I 'm serious ! and now that 
my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, and I 
command you to leave it directly. 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't 
stir a step, I assure you. {In a serious tone.) This your 
house, fellow ! It 's my house. This is my house. Mine 
while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me 
leave this house, sir ? I never met with such impudence, 
curse me ; never in my whole life before. 

Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me 
out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his 
servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This house 
is mine, sir ! " By all that 's impudent, it makes me 
laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, (bantering) as you 
take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the 
furniture? There's a pair of silver candle-sticks, and 
there 's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed 
bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill 
and let 's make no more words about it. 

Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- 
ment ? 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 335 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 

Hardcasile. Then there's a mahogany table that you 
may see your face in. 

Marlow. My bill, I say. 

Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your own 
particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 
hear no more on 't. 

Hardcastle. Young man, young man, from your father's 
letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-bred, modest 
man as a visitor here, but now I find him no better than 
a coxcomb and a bully ! but he will be down here present- 
ly, and shall hear more of it. \Exit. 

Marlow. How 's this ! Sure I have not mistaken the 
house. Everything looks like an inn ; the servants cry 
coming ; the attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, too, 
to attend us. But she 's here, and will further inform 
me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. 

Miter Miss Hardcasile. 

Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
hurry. (Aside) I believe he begins to find out his mis- 
take. But it "s too soon quite to undeceive him. 

Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. "What 
are you, and what may your business in this house be ? 

Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marlow. What, a poor relation ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed 
to keep the keys/and to see that the guests want nothing 
in my power to give them. 



336 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. 

Miss Hardcasile. Inn! O la what brought that 

into your head ? One of the best families in the county 
keep an inn ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's house 



an inn 



Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. Hard- 
castle's house, child ? 

Miss Hardcasile. Ay, sure. "Whose else should it be ? 

Marlow. So then, all 's out, and I have been damna- 
bly imposed upon. Oh, confound my stupid head, I shall 
be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall be stuck up 
in caricature in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo- 
Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an 
inn, and my father's old friend for an inn-keeper ! What 
a swaggering puppy must he take me for ! What a silly 
puppy do I find myself! There, again, may I be hanged, 
my dear, but I mistook you for the bar-maid. 

Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I 'm sure 
there 's nothing in my behavior to put me upon a level 
with one of that stamp. 

Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a 
subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong way. 
I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your sim- 
plicty for allurement. But it's over — this house I no 
more show my face in. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to 
disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any 
gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil 
things to me. I 'm sure I should be sorry (pretending to 
cry) if he left the family on my account. I'm sure I 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 

should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have 
no fortune but my character. 

Marlow. (Aside) By Heaven ! she weeps. This is 
the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest 
woman, and it touches me. (To her.) Excuse me, my 
lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I leave 
with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the difference 
of our birth, fortune, and education, make an honorable 
connection impossible ; and I can never harbor a thought 
of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honor, of bring- 
ing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now 
begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure my 
family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; and though I 'm 
poor, that 's no great misfortune to a contented mind ; and 
until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to 
want fortune. 

Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would give 
it all to. 

Marlow. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me so, 
that if I stay, I 'm undone. I must make one bold effort 
and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality in my favor 
my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live 
for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I 
owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the 
authority of a father; so that — I can speak it — it af- 
fects me — Farewell. [Exit. 
Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till now. 
He shall not go if I have power or art to detain him. I'll 
29 



338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer, 
but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh 
him out of his resolution. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville. 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels 
again, that 's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a 
mistake of the servants. 

Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't for- 
sake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects that 
I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to 
my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad 
things. But what can I do ? I have got you a pair of 
horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; and I 'm sure 
you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her 
face. Here she comes ; we must court a bit or two more, 
for fear she should suspect us. 

\_They retire, and seem to fondle. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be 
sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of the ser- 
vants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are fairly mar- 
ried, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what 
do I see ? fondling together, as I 'm alive. I never saw 
Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught you, my 
pretty doves ? What, billing, exchanging glances and 
broken. murmurs ? Ah ! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 339 

now and then, to be sure ; but there 's no love lost be- 
tween us. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the 
flame, only to make it burn brighter. 

Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises us to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he shant leave us 
any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? 

Tony. Oh, it's a pretty creature. No, I 'd sooner 
leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you 
smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becom- 
ing. 

Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help ad- 
miring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, 
thoughtless, (patting his cheek,) — ah ! it's a bold face ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence ! 

Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this 
way and that over haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he would charm the bird from 
the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes 
after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, 
my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall 
have them. Is n't he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall 
be married to-morrow, and we '11 put off the rest of his 
education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportu- 
nity. 

JEhter Diggory. 

Diggory. Where 's the Squire ? I have got a letter 
for your worship. 



340 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my let- 
ters first. 

Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from ? 

Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know though. {Turning the 
letter ; and gazing on it.) 

Miss Neville. (Aside) Undone ! undone ! A letter to 
him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my aunt sees 
it, we are ruined forever. I'll keep her employed a lit- 
tle, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcasile) But I have not told 
you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. 
Mario w. We so laughed — You must know, madam — 
This way a little, for he must not hear us. (They con- 
fir.) \ 

Tony. (Still gazing) A damned cramp piece of pen- 
manship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your 
print-hand very well ; but here there are such handles, 
and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head 
from the tail. " To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It 's 
very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where my 
own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, 
it 's all buzz. That 's hard — very hard ; for the in- 
side of the letter is always the cream of the corres- 
pondence. 

Mrs. Hardcasile. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. 
And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? 

Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must bear the 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 341 

rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. 
You '11 hear how he puzzled him again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now him- 
self, methinks. 

Tony. (Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, 
as if it was disguised in liquor. (Heading) " Dear Sir," 
— Ay, that's that. Then there 's an M, and a T, and an 
S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, confound 
me I cannot tell ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear ; can I give 
you any assistance ? 

Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
reads a cramp hand better than I. ( Twitching the letter 
from him) Do you know who it is from ? 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. 

Miss Neville. Ay, so it is : (pretending to read) Dear 
Squire, hoping that you 're in health, as I am at this pres- 
ent. The gentlemen of the Shake Bag Club has cut the 
gentlemen of the Goose Green quite out of feather. The 

odds um odd battle — um — long — fighting — 

um — here, here, it 's all about cocks and fighting ; it 's 
of no consequence — here, put it up, put it up. Thrust- 
ing the crumpled letter upon him.) 

Tony. But I tell you, miss, it 's of all the consequence 
in the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. 
Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence ! 
[ Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. How 's this ! (Reads.) " Dear Squire, 

I 'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a postchaise and 

pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses 

yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you 11 as- 

29* 



342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

sist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. De- 
spatch is necessary as the hag " — ay, the hag — " your 
mother will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." 
Grant me, patience : I shall run distracted ! My rage 
chokes me ! 

Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 suspend your re- 
sentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any 
impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Courtesying very low) Fine spoken 
madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, 
and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, 
madam. (Changing her tone) And you, you great ill- 
fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your 
mouth shut, — were you, too, joined against me? But 
I'll defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, 
madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it 
would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, in- 
stead of running away with your spark, prepare this very 
moment, to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedigree 
will keep you secure, I '11 warrant me. You too, sir, may 
mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. — Here, 
Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I '11 show you, that I wish 
you better than you do yourselves. \_Exit. 

Miss Neville. So, now I 'm completely ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 

Miss Neville. What better could be expected, from 
being connected with such a stupid fool, and; after all the 
nods and signs I made him ? 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, 
and not my stupidity, that did your business ! You were 
so nice and so busy with your Shake Bags and Goose 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 343 

Greens, that I thought you could never be making be- 
lieve. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. Sti, sir, I find by my servant, that you have 
shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, 
young gentleman ? 

Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who be- 
trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. So, I have been finely used here among you* 
Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, despised, 
insulted, laughed at. 

Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam 
broke loose presently. 

Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom 
we all owe every obligation. 

Marlow. What can I say to him ? a mere boy, an 
idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 

Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that would but 
disgrace correction. 

Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough to 
make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 

Hastings. An insensible cub. 

Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you both, one 
after the other with baskets. 

Marlow. As for him, he 's below resentment. But 
your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. 
You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. 



344 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disappoint- 
ments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, 
Mr. Marlow. 

Marlow. But, sir 

Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 
pacified. 

Enter Servant, 

Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get ready imme- 
diately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your hat 
and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty 
miles before morning. 

[Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. Well, well, I '11 come presently. 

Marlow. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to as- 
sist in rendering me ridiculous ? — To hang me out for 
the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon it, sir, 
I shall expect an explanation. 

Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're upon that 
subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care 
of another, sir ? 

Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will 
you increase my distress by this groundless dispute ? I 
implore — I entreat you 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impa- 
tient. [Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If I leave 
you thus, I shall die with apprehension. j 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 345 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
horses are waiting. [Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a 
scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am 
sure it would convert your resentment into pity ! 

Marlow. I 'm so distracted with a variety of passions, 
that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. 
George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and 
should not exasperate it. 

Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only ex- 
cuse. 

Miss Neville. "Well, my dear Hastings, if you have 
that esteem for me that I think — that I am sure you 
have, your constancy for three years will but increase 
the happiness of our future connection. If 

Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Within.) Miss Neville ! Constance, 
why, Constance, I say ! 

Miss Neville. I 'm coming ! Well, constancy, remem- 
ber, constancy is the word. [Exit. 

Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? To 
be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Marlow. (To Tony.) You see now, young gentle- 
man, the effects of your folly. What might be amuse- 
ment to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. 

Tony. (From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it : it 's 
here ! Your hands. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. 
My boots there, ho ! — Meet me, two hours hence, at the 
bottom of the garden ; and if you do n't find Tony Lump- 
kin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I '11 



346 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer 
into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Enter Hastings and Servant. 

Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
drive off, you say ? 

Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post- 
coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. They 're 
thirty miles off by this time. 

Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! 

Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing 
at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are com- 
ing this way. [Exit. 

Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to my 
fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This 
is about the time. [Exit. 

Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Hardcasile. 

Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in 
which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose 
he treated all your advances. 

Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something in 
me above a common innkeeper, too. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 347 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an un- 
common innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hardcastle. Well, I 'm in too good spirits to think of 
anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our 
families will make our personal friendships hereditary, 
and though my daughter's fortune is but small 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to 
me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence al- 
ready, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl 
to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each 
other, as you say they do 

Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each oth- 
er. My daughter as good as told me so. 

Sir Cliarles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
you know. 

Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
manner, myself; and here he comes to put you out of 
your ifs, I warrant him. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my 
strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence 
without confusion. 

Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too grave- 
ly. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter, will 
set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the worse 
for it. 

Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 

Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Mar- 
low ; if 1 am not deceived, you have something more than 
approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 



348 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Really, sir, I 've not that happiness. 

Hardcastle. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and know 
what 's what as well as you that are younger. I know 
what has past between you ; but mum. 

Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us, but 
the most profound respect on my side, and the most dis- 
tant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that my impu- 
dence has been past upon all the rest of the family ! 

Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — not 
quite impudence — though girls like to be played with, 
and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has told no 
tales, I assure you. 

Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentleman. 
You may be open. Your father and I will like you the 
better for it. 

Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever 

Hardcastle. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I 
am sure you like her 

Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir 

Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be 
joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Marlow. But hear me, sir 

Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I admire 
it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so 

Marlow. But why don't you hear me ? By all that 's 
just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest 
mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to 
suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and 
that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 349 

Hardcasile. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
made any protestations ? 

Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in 
obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady without 
emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you '11 
exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from 
leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. 

\_Exit. 

Sir Charles. I 'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
with which he parted. 

Hardcastle. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate in- 
trepidity of his assurance. 

Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon 
his truth. 

Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
stake my happiness upon her veracity. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made 
you any professions of love and affection ? 

Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir! 
But since you require unreserved sincerity — I think he 
has. 

Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 

Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son 
had more than one interview ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 

Hardcastle. (To Sir (Maries) You see. 
SO 



350 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment? 

Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 

Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 

Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 

Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 

Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 

Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do ! 
said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his 
want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned his 
heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pre- 
tended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I 'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I 
know his conversation among women to be modest and 
submissive. This forward, canting, ranting manner by 
no means describes him, and, I am confident, he never 
sat for the picture. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should convince 
you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and my papa, 
in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that 
screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in 
person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you 
describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. 

[Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if you do n't find him what I 
describe, I fear my happiness must never have a be- 
ginning. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 351 

SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OP THE GARDEN. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a fel- 
low who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He 
never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. 
What do I see ? It is he ! and perhaps with news of my 
Constance. % 

Enter Tony, booted and spattered. 

Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a man 
of your word. This looks like friendship. 

Tony. Ay, I 'm your friend, and the best friend you 
have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by 
night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me 
worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 

Hastings. But how ? where did you leave your fel- 
low-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? 

Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half 
is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked 
for it : rabbit me ! but I 'd rather ride forty miles after a 
fox, than ten with such varmint. 

Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? 
I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave them 
but where I found them ? 

Hastings. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Kiddle me this, then. What's that goes round 
the house, and round the house, and never touches the 
house ? 



352 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. I 'm still astray. 

Tony. Why, that 's it, mun. I have led them astray. 
By jingo, there 's not a pond or a slough within five miles 
of the place but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took 
them in a round while they supposed themselves going 
forward, and so you have at last brought them home again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I 
then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down 
Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy- 
tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I 
fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the 
garden. 

Hastings. But no accident, I hope ? 

Tony. No, no: only mother is confoundedly fright- 
ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She 's sick of 
the journey; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if 
your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, 
and I ? 11 be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to 
follow you. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? 

Tony. Ay, now it 's dear friend ; noble Squire ! Just 
now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. 
Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a 
knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. 
But if you had run me through the guts, then I should 
he dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. 

Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to 
relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, 
I promise to take care of the young one. [Exit Hastings. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 353 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish ! 
She 's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist 
like a mermaid. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I 'm killed. Shook ! 
Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That last 
jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, has done my 
business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. 
You would be for running away by night, without know- 
ing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I 
never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in 
a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! 
Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? 

Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack-skull 
Common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud ! O lud ! The most notori- 
ous spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to 
make a complete night on 't. 

Tony. Do n't be afraid, mamma ; do n't be afraid. Two 
of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three 
may not find us. Do n't be afraid. — Is that a man that's 
galloping behind us. No, it 's only a tree. — Do n't be 
afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving 
behind the thicket ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 
30* 



354 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. No ; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma ; 
don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah! I am sure on't. If he per- 
ceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. (Aside) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, 
come to take one of his night walks. (To her) Ah ! 
it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A 
damn'd ill-looking fellow ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven, defend us ! He ap- 
proaches. 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave 
me to manage him. If there be any danger, I '11 cough 
and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep close. 

[_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the bach scene. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did not ex- 
pect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge 
in safety ? 

Tony. Yery safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Ah, death ! I find 
there 's danger. 

Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that 's 
too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short 
journeys, as they say. Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he '11 do the 
dear boy no harm. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 355 

Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here ; I should be 
glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 
saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. 
Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort 
of cold by being out in the air. We '11 go in, if you please. 
Hem. 

Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did not 
answer yourself. I 'm certain I heard two voices, and 
am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Oh ! he 's coming 
to find me out. Oh ! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. 
I '11 lay down my life for the truth — hem —I '11 tell you 
all, sir. ^Detaining him. 

Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist 
on seeing. It 's in vain to expect I '11 believe you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Running forward from behind) O 
lud ! he '11 murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, good 
gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, 
my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare my child 
if you have any mercy. 

Hardcastle. My wife, as I 'm a Christian. From 
whence can she have come ? or what does she mean ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Kneeling) Take compassion on 
us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watch- 
es, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring 
you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. I believe the woman 's out of her senses. 
What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! My 



356 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expect- 
ed to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from 
home ? What has brought you to follow us ? 

Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits? So far from home, when you are within forty 
yards of your own door! (To him) This is one of 
your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her) 
Don't you know the. gate and the mulberry tree ? and 
don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. 
( To Tony) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe 
all this ? I '11 teach you to abuse your mother — I will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I '11 spoil you, I will. 

[Follows him off the stage. 

Hardcastle. There 's morality, however, in his reply. 

{Exit. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you delibe- 
rate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost forever 
Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of 
the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are so 
sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am una- 
ble to face any new danger. Two or three years' pa- 
tience will at last crown us with happiness. 

Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our hap- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 357 

piness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! Love 
and content will increase what we possess beyond a mon- 
arch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 

Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once 
more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In 
the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ev- 
er produces a lasting repentance. I 'm resolved to apply 
to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. 

Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not the 
power, to relieve you. 

Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that I 
am resolved to rely. 

Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, I 
must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 

SCENE CHANGES. 

Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hardcastle. 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what you 
say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he 
says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I 
most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation; 
and to show I merit it. if you place yourselves as I direct- 
ed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. 

Sir Charles. I '11 to your father, and keep him to the 
appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come once 
more to take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, know the 
pain I feel in the separation. 



358 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. (In her own natural manner) I 
believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which 
you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, 
might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value 
of what you now think proper to regret. 

Marlow. (Aside) This girl every moment improves 
upon me. (To her) It must not be, madam; I have 
already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride 
begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of educa- 
tion and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt 
of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing can 
restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I '11 urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as good as 
hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, 
not inferior, what are these advantages without equal af- 
fluence ? I must remain contented with the slight ap- 
probation of imputed merit; I must have only the 
mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims 
are fixed on fortune. 

Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow, from behind* 

Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 

Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I '11 engage my 
Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Marlow. By Heavens ! madam, fortune was ever my 
smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my 
eye ; for who could see that without emotion ? But ev- 
ery moment that I converse with you, steals in some new 
grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expres- 
sion. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 359 

refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now 
strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and 
conscious virtue. 

$r Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 

Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 

Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and 
I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, 
when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 

Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot 
detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connection in 
which there is the smallest room for repentance ? Do 
you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient 
passion to load you with confusion ? Do you think I 
could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by 
lessening yours ? 

Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no happiness 
but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall I ever 
feel repentance but in not having seen your merits be- 
fore. I will stay even contrary to your wishes i and 
.though you should persist to shun me, I will make my 
respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past con- 
duct. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you '11 desist. As 
our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I 
might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, 
Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a con- 
nection where I must appear mercenary, and you impru- 
dent ? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident 
addresses of a secure admirer. 

Marlow. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security ? 
Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every mo- 



360 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

ment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase 
my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue 

Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indif- 
ference, your uninteresting conversation ? 

Hardcastle. Your cold contempt ; your formal inter- 
view ! What have you to say now ? 

Marlow. That I 'm all amazement ! What can it 
mean? 

Hardcastle. It means that you can say and unsay 
things at pleasure : that you can address a lady in private, 
and deny it in public : that you have one story for us, 
and another for my daughter. 

Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? 

Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
whose else should she be ? 

Marlow. Oh, the devil !■ 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesy- 
ing ;) she that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable 
Battle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Marlow. Zounds, there 's no bearing this \ it 's worse 
than death! 

Miss Hardcastle. In which of your characters, sir, 
will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering 
gentleman, which looks on the ground, that speaks just 
to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, confident 
creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old 
Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning I — Ha I 
ha ! ha ! 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 361 

Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never at- 
tempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken down ! 
I must be gone. 

Hardeastle. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find 
it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know she '11 forgive 
you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We '11 all forgive 
you. Take courage, man. 

[They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. 

Enter Mrs. Hardeastle and Tony. 

Mrs. Hardeastle. So, so, they 're gone off. Let them 
go, I care not. 

Hardeastle. Who gone ? 

Mrs. Hardeastle. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, 
Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our 
modest visitor here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As 
worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made 
a more prudent choice. 

Hardeastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm proud 
of the connection. 

Mrs. Hardeastle. Well, if he has taken away the lady, 
he has not taken her fortune : that remains in this family 
to console us for her loss. 

Hardeastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mer- 
cenary ? 

Mrs, Hardeastle. Ay, that 's my affair, not yours. 

Hardeastle. But you know if your son, when of age, 
refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at 
her own disposal. 

31 



362 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but lie 's not of age, and she has 
not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 

Miter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Aside) What, returned so soon ! 
I begin not to like it. 

Hastings. (To Hardcastle) For raj late attempt to 
fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my 
punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from 
your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent 
I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first 
founded in duty. 

Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged to 
stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of 
levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure 
my choice : But I am now recovered from the delusion, 
and hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me from 
a nearer connection. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw ; this is all but the 
whining end of a modern novel. 

Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come 
back' to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do 
you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now offer you ? 

.Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't 
refuse her till I 'm of age, father. 

Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, boy ? 
was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred 
with your mother's desire to keep it secret. But since 1 
find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you 
have been of age these three months. 

Tony. Of age 1 Am I of age,, father ? 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 363 

Hardcastle. Above three months. 
Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 make of my 
liberty. ( Talcing Miss Neville's hand) Witness all men 
by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of 
blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of 
no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Con- 
stance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony 
Lumpkin is his own man again. 

Sir Charles. O brave Squire S 

Hastings. My worthy friend ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My un dutiful offspring ! 

Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
cerely ! And, could I prevail upon my little tyrant here 
to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, 
if you would return me the favor. 

Hastings. (To Miss Hardcastle) Come, madam, you 
are now driven to the very last scene of all your con- 
trivances. I know you like him, I 'm sure he loves you, 
and you must and shall have him. 

Hardcastle. (Joining their hands) And I say so too. 
And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has 
a daughter, I do n't believe you '11 ever repent your bar- 
gain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather 
all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of 
the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, 
boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the 
mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in 
the wife. [Exeunt Omnes. 



364 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



EPILOGUE. 
BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE CHARACTER OS* 321 SS 
HARI>CASTLE. 

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success. 
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you : 
And let me say, for all your resolution, 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please; 
4 We have our exits and our entrances.' 
The first act shows the simple country maid, 
Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; 
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action-, 
4 1 hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' 
Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, 
Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs : 
On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts j 
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 365 

The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, 
And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
Pretends to taste, at opera cries caro, 
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : 
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, 
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside ; 
Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, 
Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
Such, through our lives, th' eventful history ! 
The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 



31* 



366 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



EPILOGUE,* 

TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OP TONY LUMPKIN, 

BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. 

Well, now all's ended, and my comrades gone, 
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son ? 
A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my station, 
And try to make a bluster in the nation : 
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her — 
Off, in a crack, I '11 carry big Bet Bouncer. 

Why should not I in the great world appear ? 
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ! 
No matter what a man may here inherit, 
In London — gad, they 've some regard to spirit : 
I see the horses prancing up the streets, 
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night — 
Not to the plays — they say it an't polite : 
To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 
And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
Thus, here and there, forever up and down ; 
We '11 set the fashions, too, to half the town ; 
And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — 
Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a-yard : 
Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, 
We know what 's damn'd genteel as well as they ! 

* This came too late to be spoken. 



ESSAYS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure in 
nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an air 
of impudence ; who, while his heart beats with anxiety, 
studies ease and affects good-humor. In this situation, 
however, every unexperienced writer, as I am, finds him- 
self. Impressed with terrors of the tribunal before which 
he is going to appear, his natural humor turns to pert- 
ness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. 

For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, 
and have often even blundered in making my bow. I am 
at a loss whether to be merry or sad on this solemn occa- 
sion. Should I modestly decline all merit, it is too proba- 
ble the hasty reader may take me at my word. If, on 
the other hand, like laborers in the magazine trade, I 
humbly presume to promise an epitome of all the good 
things that were ever said or written, those readers I most 
desire to please may forsake me. 

My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my embar- 
rassment, instantly offered his assistance and advice. 
" You must know, sir," says he, " that the republic of let- 
ters is at present divided into several classes. One 
writer excels at a plan or a title-page ; another works 
away at the body of the book ; and a third is a dab at an 
index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single 



368 ESSAYS. 

man's industry, but goes through as many hands as a new 
pin, before it is fit for the public. I fancy, sir," continues 
he, " I can provide an eminent hand, and upon moderate 
terms, to draw up a promising plan to smooth up our 
readers a little ; and pay them, as Colonel Chartres paid 
his seraglio, at the rate of three-halfpence in hand, and 
three shillings more in promises." 

He was proceeding in his advice, which, however, I 
thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I in- 
tended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impossible to 
form any regular plan ; determined never to be tedious 
in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure presented, I was 
resolved to follow. 

It will be improper, therefore, to pall the reader's cu- 
riosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any pleasure 
I am to procure him, by saying what shall come next. 
Happy, could any effort of mine but repress one criminal 
pleasure, or but for a moment fill up an interval of anxi- 
ety ? How gladly would I lead mankind from the vain 
prospects of life, to prospects of innocence and ease, 
where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is 
but the echo of tranquillity ! 

But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, 
every writer is now convinced that he must be chiefly 
indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to 
allow him any degree of reputation. It has been re- 
marked, that almost every character which has excited 
either attention or pity, has owed part of its success to 
merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circumstances 
in its favor. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged coun- 
tries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other 



ESSAYS. 369 

an exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally suc- 
ceeds more from being happily addressed, than from its 
native poignancy. A jest calculated to spread at a gaming- 
table, may be received with perfect indifference should it 
happen to drop in a mackerel-boat. We have all seen 
dunces triumph in some companies, where men of real 
humor were disregarded, by a general combination in 
favor of stupidity. To drive the observation as far as it 
will go, should the labors of a writer, who designs his 
performances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall 
into the hands of a devourer of compilations, what can 
he expect but contempt and confusion ? If his merits 
are to be determined by judges who estimate the value 
of a book from its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival 
must acquire an easy superiority, who with persuasive 
eloquence promises four extraordinary pages of letter- 
press, or three beautiful prints, curiously colored from 
Nature. 

Thus, then,- though I cannot j>romise as much enter- 
tainment, or as much elegance, as others have done, yet 
the reader may be assured he shall have as much of both 
as I can. He shall, at least, find me alive while I study 
his entertainment ; for I solemnly assure him, I was 
never yet possessed of the secret of writing and sleep- 
ing. 

During the course of this paper, therefore, all the wit 
and learning I have, are heartily at his service ; which if, 
after so candid a confession, he should, notwithstanding, 
still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad stuff, this I protest 
is more than I know ; I have a clear conscience, and am 
entirely out of the secret. 



370 ESSAYS. 

Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of a single 
paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try a second, 
which, as there is a studied difference in subject and style, 
may be more suited to his taste ; if this also fails, I must 
refer him to a third, or even a fourth, in case of extremi- 
ty ; if he should still continue refractory, and find me dull 
to the last, I must inform him, with Bayes in the Re- 
hearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of fellow, and 
desire no more of his acquaintance ; but still, if my read- 
ers impute the general tenor of my subject to me as a 
fault, I must beg leave to tell them a story. 

A traveller, in his way to Italy, found himself in a coun- 
try where the inhabitants had each a large excrescence 
depending from the chin ; a deformity which, as it was 
endemic, and the people little used to strangers, it had 
been the custom, time immemorial, to look upon as the 
greatest beauty. Ladies grew toasts from the size of 
their chins, and no men were beaux whose faces were 
not broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday ; a country- 
church was at hand, and our traveller was willing to per- 
form the duties of the day. Upon his first appearance 
at the church-door, the eyes of all were fixed on the 
stranger ; but what was their amazement, when they 
found that he actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a 
pursed chin ! Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whis- 
pers, circulated from visage to visage; the prismatic 
figure of the stranger's face, was a fund of infinite gaiety. 
Our traveller could no longer patiently continue an object 
of deformity to point at. " Good folks," said he, " I per- 
ceive that I am a very ridiculous figure here, but I assure 
you I am reckoned no way deformed at home." 



371 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP ; OR THE STORY OF AL- 
CANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 

Taken from a ByzaritiDe Historian. 

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and 
-wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools 
which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and con- 
tinued those pensions to men of learning, which avari- 
cious governors had monopolized. 

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Sep- 
timius were fellow-students together ; the one, the most 
subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the other, the most 
eloquent speaker in the Academic grove. Mutual ad- 
miration soon begot a friendship. Their fortunes were 
nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most cel- 
ebrated cities in the world-; for Alcander was of Athens, 
Septimius came from Rome. 

In this state of harmony they lived for some time to- 
gether, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his 
youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length 
of entering into the busy world ; and as a step previous 
to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exqui- 
site beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was 
fixed ; the previous ceremonies were performed ; and 
nothing now remained but her being conducted in tri- 
umph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. 

Alcander's exultation in his own happiness, or being 
unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend 
Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce 



372 ESSAYS. 

Hypatia to his fellow-student ; which he did, with all the 
gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in 
friendship and love. But this was an interview fatal to 
the future peace of both ; for Septimius no sooner saw 
her but he was smitten with an involuntary passion ; and 
though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so 
imprudent and unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short 
time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, 
which the physicians judged incurable. 

During this illness Alcander watched him with all the 
anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in 
those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the 
physicians, by these means, soon discovered that the cause 
of their patient's disorder was love ; and Alcander, being 
apprized of their discovery, at length extorted a confes- 
sion from the reluctant dying lover. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict 
between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on 
this occasion ; it is enough to say that the Athenians were 
at that time arrived at such refinement in morals, that 
every virtue was carried to excess : in short, forgetful of 
his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her 
charms, to the young Roman. They were married pri- 
vately by his connivance, and this unlooked-for change of 
fortune wrought, as unexpected a change in the constitu- 
tion of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was 
perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for 
Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he 
was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, 
arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was con- 
stituted the city judge, or praetor. 



373 



In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of 
being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a 
prosecution was commenced against him by the relations 
of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was 
suggested for money. His innocence of the crime laid to 
his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, 
were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful 
party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous 
fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at 
the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he 
himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as 
a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest 
bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Al- 
cander, with some other companions of distress, was car- 
ried into that region of desolation and sterility. His 
stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperi- 
ous master, and his success in hunting was all that was 
allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. Every 
morning awaked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and 
every change of season served but to aggravate his un- 
sheltered distress. After some years of bondage, how- 
ever, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced it 
with ardor ; so that travelling by night, and lodging in 
caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived 
in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, 
Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither 
our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and 
publicly acknowledged by his former friend. Here he 
stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the 
eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; 
32 



374 • ESSAYS. 

but he was so much altered by a long succession of hard- 
ships, that he continued unnoticed amongst the rest ; and 
in the evening, when he was going up to the prcetor's 
chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. 
The attention of the poor is generally driven from one 
ungrateful object to another ; for night coming on, he 
now found himself under the necessity of seeking a place 
to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All ema- 
ciated, and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would 
harbor so much wretchedness ; and sleeping in the streets 
might be attended with interruption or danger ; in short, 
he was obliged to take up his lodgings in one of the 
tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, 
and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head 
upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while 
in sleep, and found on his flinty couch more ease than 
beds of down can supply to the guilty. 

As he continued here about midnight two robbers 
came to make this their retreat, but happening to dis- 
agree about the division of their plunder, one of them 
stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in 
blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was 
found next morning dead at the mouth of the vault. 
This naturally inducing a farther inquiry, an alarm was 
spread; the cave was examined; and Alcander being 
found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of 
robbery and murder. The circumstances against him 
were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance 
confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so 
long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. 
He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, 



ESSAYS. 375 

falsehood, and cruelty ; he was determined to make no 
defence ; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was 
dragged bound with cords before the tribunal of Sep- 
timius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he 
offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was pro- 
ceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious 
death, when the attention of the multitude was soon di- 
verted by another object. The robber, who had been 
really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and, 
struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was 
brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every 
other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander's 
innocence therefore appeared ; but the sullen rashness of 
his conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multi- 
tude ; but their astonishment was still farther increased 
when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to em- 
brace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his 
friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck 
with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be related ? 
— Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and 
honors of the principal citizens of Rome, lived afterwards 
in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his 
tomb, that no circumstances are so desperate which Pro- 
dence may not relieve. 



ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. 

When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in which 
I passed the early part of my life in the country, I cannot 
avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those happy 



376 



are never to return. In that retreat all nature 
seemed capable of affording pleasure ; I then made no 
refinements on happiness, but could be pleased with the 
most awkward efforts of rustic mirth, thought cross-pur- 
poses the highest stretch of human wit, and questions 
and commands the most rational way of spending the 
evening. Happy could so charming an illusion continue ! 
I find that age and knowledge only contribute to sour our 
dispositions. My present enjoyments may be more re- 
fined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure 
the best actor gives, can no way compare to that I have 
received from a country wag who imitated a quaker's 
sermon. The music of the finest singer is dissonance to 
what I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears 
with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cru- 
elty of Barbara Allen. 

Writers of every age have endeavored to show that 
pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our 
amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, everything 
becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress 
will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in 
review like the figures of a procession : some may be 
awkward, others ill-dressed ; but none but a fool is for 
this enraged with the master of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortification 
in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situ- 
ation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained ; obliged 
to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall; and 
condemned to this for life : yet, with all these circum- 
stances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would have 
danced but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the mer- 



377 



riest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical 
philosopher was here ! a happy constitution supplied phi- 
losophy ; and though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he 
was really wise. No reading or study had contributed 
to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Every thing 
furnished him with an opportunity of mirth ; and, though 
some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was 
such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate ; -for 
all philosophy is only forcing the trade of happiness, 
when nature seems to deny the means. 

They who, like our slave, can place themselves on 
that side of the world in which every thing appears in a 
pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to 
excite their good-humor. The most calamitous events, 
either to themselves or others, can bring no new afflic- 
tion; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which 
comedies only are acted. All the bustle of heroism, or 
the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the absurd- 
ity of the scene, and make the humor more poignant. 
They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, 
or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, though 
dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous cardinal de 
Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest 
degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all 
that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, where- 
ever pleasure was to be sold, he was generally foremost 
to raise the auction. Being a universal admirer of the 
fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell 
in love with another, from whom he expected a more 
favorable reception. If she too rejected his addresses, 
32* 



378 ESSAYS. 

lie never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in 
hopeless distress : he persuaded himself, that instead of 
loving the lady, he only fancied that he had loved her, 
and so all was well again. When Fortune wore her 
angriest look, and he at last fell into the power of his 
most deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine (being confined a 
close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never 
attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philoso- 
phy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed at 
himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased 
at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
secluded from his friends, though denied all the amuse- 
ments, and even the coveniences of life, he still retained 
his good-humor, laughed at all the little spite of his ene- 
mies, and carried the jest so far as to be revenged by 
writing the life of his jailer. 

All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be 
stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's ex- 
ample will instruct us 'to be merry in circumstances of 
the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good- 
humor be construed by others into insensibility, or even 
idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool 
would measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks 
of it ; for my own part, I never pass by one of our pris- 
ons for debt, that I do not envy that felicity which is 
still going forward among those people, who forget the 
cares of the world by being shut out from its silly ambi- 
tion. 

The happiest silly fellow I ever knew, was of the 
number of those good-natured creatures that are said to 
do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever he fell 



ESSAYS. 379 

into misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head 
was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a 
sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hiber- 
nian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of 
the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention 
to money-matters had incensed his father to such a de- 
gree, that all the intercession of friends in his favor was 
fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
The whole family, and Dick among the number, gath- 
ered around him. " I leave my second son, Andrew," 
said the expiring miser, " my whole estate, and desire 
him to be frugal." Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is 
usual on these occasions, prayed Heaven to prolong his 
life and health to enjoy it himself. "I recommend 
Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and 
leave him beside four thousand pounds." — "Ah ! father," 
cried Simon, in great affliction to be sure, " may Heaven 
give you life and health to enjoy it yourself ! " At last, 
turning to poor Dick, " As for you, you have always been 
a sad dog ; you'll never come to good ; you'll never be 
rich ; I'll leave you a shilling to buy a halter." — " Ah ! 
father," cries Dick, without any emotion, " may Heaven 
give you life and health to enjoy it yourself! " This was 
all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless, 
imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an 
uncle recompensed the neglect of a father ; and my 
friend is now not only excessively good-humored, but 
competently rich. 

Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who appears 
at a ball, at an author who laughs at the public which 
pronounces him a dunce, at a general who smiles at the 

» 



380 -ESSAYS. 

approach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good- 
humor in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest be- 
havior that any of us can possibly assume. It is certainly 
a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to 
take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it ; by 
the first method, we forget our miseries ; by the last, we 
only conceal them from others : by struggling with mis- 
fortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the con- 
flict ; but a sure method to come off victorious, is by 
running away. 



DESCRIPTION OF YAEIOUS CLUBS. 

I remember to haVe read in some philosopher (I be- 
lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's character, 
sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he can find 
company in London to match them. If he be splenetic, 
he may every day meet companions on the seats in St. 
James's Park, with whose groans he may mix his own, 
and pathetically talk of the weather. If he be passionate, 
he may vent his rage among the old orators at Slaughter's 
coffee-house, and damn the nation because it keeps him 
from starving. If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence 
at the Humdrum club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, 
he may find very good company in Moorfields, either at 
Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer ac- 
quaintance. 

But, although such as have a knowledge of the town 
may easily class themselves with tempers congenial to 
their own, a countryman who comes to live in London 



ESSAYS. 381 

finds nothing more difficult. With regard to myself, none 
ever tried with more assiduity, or came off with such in- 
different success. I spent a whole season in the search, 
during which time my name has been enrolled in so- 
cieties, lodges, convocations, and meetings, without num- 
ber. To some I was introduced by a friend, to others 
invited by an advertisement ; to these I introduced my 
self, and to those I changed my name to gain admit- 
tance. In short, no coquette was ever more solicitous to 
match her ribands to her complexion, than I to suit my 
club to my temper ; for I was too obstinate to bring my 
temper to conform to it. 

The first club I entered, upon coming to town, was 
that of the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suit- 
ed to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humor, and 
even sometimes of fun, from my childhood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the payment of 
two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without 
farther ceremony to the members, who were already as- 
sembled, and had, for some time, begun upon business. 
The grand, with a mallet in his hand, presided at the head 
of the table. I could not avoid, upon my entrance, mak- 
ing use of all my skill in physiognomy, in order to dis- 
cover that superiority of genius in men who had taken a 
title so superior to the rest of mankind. I expected to 
see the lines of every face marked with strong thinking ; 
but, though I had some skill in this science, I could for 
my life discover nothing but a pert simper, fat or profound 
stupidity. 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, 
who had knocked down Mr. Sprigging for a song. I was, 



382 



upon this, whispered by one of the company who sat next 
me, that I should now see something touched off to a 
nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom 
in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavored to excuse 
himself; for, as he was to act a madman and a king, it 
was impossible to go through the part properly without a 
crown and chains. His excuses were overruled by a 
great majority, and with much vociferation. The presi- 
dent ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead of a crown, 
our performer covered his brows with an inverted Jordan. 
After he had rattled his chain, and shook his head, to the 
great delight of the whole company, he began his song. 
As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in com- 
pany that did not expose themselves, it was no great dis- 
appointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the num- 
ber ; however, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my 
seat in rapture, cried out, " Bravo ! encore ! " and slapped 
the table as loud as any of the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased 
with my taste, and the ardor of my approbation ; and 
whispering told me I had suffered an immense loss ; for, 
had I come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard 
Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop manner, by the pimpled- 
nose spirit at the president's right elbow : but he was 
evaporated before I came. 

As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- 
ment, I found the attention of the company employed 
upon a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the 
Staffordshire giant's, was giving us the " Softly sweet, in 
Lydian measure," of Alexander's Feast. After a short 
pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, 



333 



with the humors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came 
on Old Jackson, with a story between every stanza : next 
was sung the Dust-Cart, and then Solomon's Song. The 
glass began now to circulate pretty freely ; those who 
were silent when sober, would now be heard in their turn ; 
every man had his song, and he saw no reason why he 
should not be heard as well as any of the rest : one beg- 
ged to be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in 
high taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept trun- 
dling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but singing ; 
voice rose above voice, and the whole became one univer- 
sal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com- 
pany that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls 
the moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most 
melancholy of our lives : never was so much noise so 
quickly quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of 
our landlord. " Drunk out ! " w T as echoed in a tone of 
discontent round the table : " drunk out already ! that 
w T as very odd ! that so much punch could be drunk out 
already ! impossible ! " The landlord, however, seeming 
resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, the com- 
pany was dissolved, and a president chosen for the night 
ensuing. 

A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some- 
time after of the entertainment I have been describing, 
proposed to bring me to the club that he frequented ; 
which he fancied, would suit the gravity of my temper 
exactly. " We have at the Muzzy club," says he, " no 
riotous mirth nor awkward ribaldry ; no confusion or 
bawling ; all is conducted with wisdom and decency : be- 
sides, some of our members are worth forty thousand 



384 ESSAYS. 

pounds ; men of prudence and foresight every one of 
them : these are the proper acquaintance, and to such I 
will to-night introduce you." I was charmed at the pro- 
posal ; to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers 
that threw me into rapture. 

At seven o'clock, I was accordingly introduced by my 
friend ; not indeed to the companjr, for, though I made 
my best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach; 
but to the table at which they were sitting. Upon my 
entering the room, I could not avoid feeling a secret ven- 
eration from the solemnity of the scene before me ; the 
members kept a profound silence, each with a pipe in his 
mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that 
might easily be construed into absolute wisdom. Happy 
society ! thought I to myself, where the members think 
before they speak, deliver nothing rashly, but convey 
their thoughts to each other pregnant with meaning, and 
matured by reflection. 

In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half 
hour, expecting each moment that somebody would begin 
to open his mouth ; every time the pipe Avas laid down, I 
expected it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At 
length, resolving to break the charm myself, and over- 
come their extreme diffidence, for to this I imputed their 
silence, I rubbed my hands, and looking as wise as possi- 
ble, observed that the nights began to grow a little coolish 
at this time of the year. This, as it was directed to none 
of the company in particular, none thought himself 
obliged to answer ; wherefore I continued still to rub my 
hands and look wise. My next effort was addressed to a 



ESSAYS. 385 

gentlemen who sat next me ; to whom I observed, that 
the beer was extremely good ; my neighbor made no re- 
ply, but by a large puff of tobacco smoke. 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one 
of them a little relieved me by observing, that bread had 
not risen these three weeks. " Ah ! " says another, still 
keeping the pipe in his mouth, " that puts me in mind of 
a pleasant story about that — hem — very well ; you 
must know — but, before I begin — sir, my service to you 
— where was I ? " 

My next club goes by the name of the Harmonical 
Society ; probably from that love of order and friendship 
which every person commends in institutions of this na- 
ture. The landlord was himself founder. The money 
spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes whip for a 
double reckoning. To this club few recommendations are 
requisite except the introductory fourpence, and my land- 
lord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never 
refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as every body else 
usually does on his club-night ; we discussed the topic of 
the day, drank each other's healths, snuffed the candles 
with our fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate 
of tobacco. The company saluted each other in the 
common manner. Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Cur- 
rycomb-maker had not caught cold going home the last 
club-night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping 
that, young Master Bellows-mender had got well again of 
the chin-cough. Doctor Twist told us a story of a parlia- 
ment man with whom he was intimately acquainted ; 
while the bug-man, at the same time, was telling a better 
33 



386 ESSAYS. 

story of a noble lord with whom he could do anything. 
A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at the 
other end of the table, was engaged in a long narrative 
of the ghost in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers 
of the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, 
who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins was dis- 
puting on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, 
over the table, while the president vainly knocked down 
Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the combination 
of these voices, which I could hear all together, and which 
formed an upper part to the concert, there were several 
others playing under parts by themselves, and endeavor- 
ing to fasten on some luckless neighbor's ear, who was 
himself bent upon the same design against some other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, 
and this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, 
taken in short hand, word for word, as it was spoken by 
every member of the company. It may be necessary to 
observe, that the man who told of the ghost had the loud- 
est voice and the longest story to tell, so that his con- 
tinuing narrative filled every chasm in the conversation. 

" So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud 
raps at the bed-post" — " Says my lord to me, My dear 
Smokeum, you know there is no man upon the face of 
the y earth for whom I have so high" — "A damnable 
false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and good 
learning ; for I '11 tell it aloud, and spare not, that" — " Si- 
lence for a song; Mr. Leathersides for a song" — As I 
was walking upon the highway, I met a young damsel" — 
" Then what brings you here ? says the parson to the 
ghost" — " Sanconiathon, Manetho, and Berosus" — "The 



ESSAYS. 387 

whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar" — • 
" Dam" — " As for Abel Drugger, sir, he 's damn'd low in 
it ; my prentice boy has more of the gentleman than he" 

— " For murder will out one time or another ; and none 
but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, can" — " Damme if I 
do n't ; for my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and 
who is a parliament man, a man of consequence, a dear 
honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night 
at" — " Death and damnation upon all his posterity by 
simply barely tasting" — " Sour grapes, as the fox said 
once when he could not reach them ; and I '11, I '11 tell 
you a story about that, that will make you burst your 
sides with laughing. A fox once" — " Will nobody 
listen to the song ? " — "As I was a walking upon 
the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom and 
gay" — "No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered; nor 
did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all my life, 
and that was stabbed in the belly with a " — " My 
blood and soul if I do n't " — " Mr. Bellows-mender ; 
I have the honor of drinking your very good health' 

— "Blast me if I do" — "Dam" — "Blood" — "Bugs" 
_ « Fire " — " Whiz " — " Blid" — " Tit " — " Eat " 
— "Trip" — The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid con- 
fusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could 
here find ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have 
been a fool myself; and why should I be angry with them 
for being something so natural to every child of ha- ' 
manity ? 

Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the follow- 
ing night, to a club of fashion. On taking my place, I 



found the conversation sufficiently easy, and tolerably 
good-natured ; for my lord and Sir Paul were not yet ar- 
rived. I now thought myself completely fitted, and 
resolving to seek no farther, determined to take up my 
residence here for the winter : while my temper began 
to open insensibly to the cheerfulness I saw diffused on 
every face in the room : but the delusion soon vanished, 
when the waiter came to apprize us that his lordship and 
Sir Paul were just arrived. 

From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; our 
new guests bustled into the room, and took their seats at 
the head of the table. Adieu now all confidence ; every 
creature strove who should most recommend himself to 
our members of distinction. Each seemed quite regard- 
less of pleasing any but our new guests; and what before 
wore the appearance of friendship, was now turned into 
rivalry. 

> Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flattery and 
obsequious attention, our great men took any notice of 
the rest of the company. Their wmole discourse was ad- 
dressed to each other. Sir Paul told his lordship a long 
story of Moravia the Jew ; and his lordship gave Sir 
Paul a very long account of his new method of manag- 
ing silkworms ; he led him, and consequently the rest of 
the company, through all the stages of feeding, sunning, 
and hatching ; with an episode on mulberry-trees, a di- 
gression upon grass-seeds, and a long parenthesis about 
his new postilion. In this manner we travelled on, wish- 
ing every story to be the last ; but all in vain : — 

" Hills over hills, and Alps on alps arose." 



389 



The last club in which I was enrolled a member, was 
a society of moral philosophers, as they called them- 
selves, who assembled twice a week, in order to show the 
absurdity of the present mode of religion, and establish 
a new one in its stead. 

I found the members very warmly disputing when I 
arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics, but about 
who had neglected to lay down his preliminary six- 
pence upon entering the room. The president swore 
that he had laid his own down, and so swore all the com- 
pany. 

During this contest, I had an opportunity of observing 
the laws, and also the members, of the society. The 
president, who had been, as I was told, lately a bankrupt, 
was a tall, pale figure, with a long black wig ; the next to 
him was dressed in a large white wig, and a black cra- 
vat ; a third, by the brownness of his complexion seemed 
a native of Jamaica ; and a fourth, by his hue, appeared 
to be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the most 
just idea of their learning and principles. 

" I. We, being a laudable society of moral philosophers, 
intend to dispute twice a week about religion and priest- 
craft ; leaving behind us old wives' tales, and following 
good learning and sound sense ; and if so be, that any 
other persons has a mind to be of the society, they shall 
be entitled so to do, upon paying the sum of three shil- 
lings, to be spent by the company in punch. 

"II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent by 
the company in punch. 

" III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away 
33* 



390 ESSAYS. 

without paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon 
his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled 
by a majority ; and all fines shall be paid in punch. 

" IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to the 
president, in order to buy books of learning for the good 
of the society ; the president has already put himself to 
a good deal of expense in buying books for the club ; par- 
ticularly the works of Tully, Socrates, Cicero, which he 
will soon read to the society. 

" V. All them who brings a new argument against re- 
ligion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of learn- 
ing, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the freedom 
of the society, upon paying sixpence only, to be spent in 
punch. 

"VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 
meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish name 
in the newspapers. 

"Saunders Mac Wild, President. 
Anthony Blewit, Vice President, 

his f mark. 
William Turpin, Secretary." 



ON THE POLICY OF CONCEALING OUR WANTS, OR 
POVERTY. 

It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of lan- 
guage is^to express our wants and desires ; but men who 
know the world, hold, and I think with some show of 
reason, that he who best knows how to keep his necessi- 
ties private, is the most likely person to have them re- 



391 



dressed ; and that the true use of speech is not so much 
to express our wants as to conceal them. 

When we reflect on the manner in which mankind 
generally confer their favors, there appears something 
so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally col- 
lects from the smaller ; and the poor find as much 
pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, 
as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its in- 
crease. Nor is there anything in this repugnant to the 
laws of humanity. Seneca himself allows, that, in con- 
ferring benefits, the present should always be suited to 
the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large 
presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of 
middling stations are obliged to be content with presents 
something less ; while the beggar, who may be truly said 
to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his 
warmest solicitations. 

Every man who has seen the world, and has had his 
ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have fre- 
quently experienced the truth of this doctrine ; and must 
know, that to have much, or to seem to have it, is the 
only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of 
broken fortune to a falling column ; the lower it sinks, the 
greater weight is it obliged to sustain. Thus, when a 
man's circumstances are such that he has no occasion to 
borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him; but should 
his wants be such, that he sues for a trifle, it is two to one 
whether he may be trusted with the smallest sum. A 
certain young fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had oc- 
casion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his 
request as if he wanted two hundred ; and talked so 



392 ESSAYS. 

familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he 
wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he 
wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made the pro- 
posal in a laced coat ; for he found, by experience, that if 
he appeared shabby on these occasions, his tailor had 
taken an oath against trusting, or, what was every whit 
as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be 
at home for some time. 

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, exeept 
to find pity, and by this means relief ; but before a poor 
man opens his mind in such circumstances, he should first 
consider whether he is contented to lose the esteem of the 
person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up 
friendship to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are 
passions incompatible with each other; and it is impossi- 
ble that both can reside in any breast, for the smallest 
space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made 
up of esteem and pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow 
and contempt: the mind may, for some time, fluctuate 
between them, but it can never entertain both at once. 

In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is but, at best, 
a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more 
than transitory assistance ; with some it scarce lasts from 
the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket ; 
with others it may continue for twice that space ; and on 
some of extraordinary sensibility, I have seen it operate 
for half an hour together ; but still, last as it may, it gen- 
erally produces but beggarly effects, and where, from this 
motive, we give five farthings, from others we give 
pounds : whatever be our feelings from the first impulse 
of distress, when the same distress solicits a second time, 



393 



we then feel with diminished sensibility; and, like the 
repetition of an echo, every -stroke becomes weaker; till, 
at last, our sensations lose all mixture of sorrow, and de- 
generate into downright contempt. 

These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a very 
good-natured fellow who is now no more. He was bred 
in a counting-house, and his father dying just as he was 
out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many 
friends to advise with. The restraint in which my friend 
had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, 
which some regarded as prudence ; and, from such con- 
siderations, he had every day repeated offers of friend- 
ship. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their 
assistance that way ; and they who had daughters, fre- 
quently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. 
My friend, however, was in good circumstances; he 
wanted neither their money, friends, nor a wife ; and 
therefore modestly declined their proposals. 

Some errors, however, in the management of his af- 
fairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to a 
different way of thinking ; and he at last considered, that 
it was his best way to let his friends know that their of- 
fers were at length acceptable. His first address was to 
a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers 
of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he 
knew those offers would have been refused. As a man, 
therefore, confident of not being refused, he requested the 
use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then 
had occasion for money. "And pray, sir," replied the 
scrivener, " do you want all this money ? " — " Want it, 
sir!" says the other; "if I did not want it I should not 



394 ESSAYS. 

have asked it." — "I am sorry for that," says the friend, 
"for those who want money when they borrow, will 
always want money when they should come to pay. To 
say the truth, sir, money is money now ; and I believe it 
is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part ; he that 
has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has 
got." 

jSTot quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer 
was resolved to try another, who he knew was the very 
best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom 
he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affa- 
bility that could be expected from generous friendship. 
" Let me see^ you want a hundred guineas : and pray, 
dear Jack, would not fifty answer ?" — " If you have but 
fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented." — " Fifty to spare! 
I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about 
me." — " Then I must borrow the other thirty from some 
other friend." — " And pray," replied the friend, " would 
it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from 
that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you 
know ? You know, my dear sir, that you need make no 
ceremony with me at any time; you know, I'm your 
friend; and when you choose a bit of dinner or so — 
You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't for- 
get to dine with us now and then. Your very humble 
servant." 

Distressed, but not discouraged, at this treatment, he 
was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, 
which he could not have from friendship. A young lady, 
a distant relation by the mother's side, had a fortune in 
her own hands ; and, as she had already made all the 



ESSAYS. 395 

advances that her sex's modesty would permit, he made 
his proposal with confidence. He soon, however, per- 
ceived that no bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. 
She had lately fallen deeply in love with another, who 
had more money, and the whole neighborhood thought it 
would be a match. 

Every day now began to strip my poor friend of his 
former finery ; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the 
pawnbroker's, and he seemed at length equipped in the 
genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought him- 
self secure from actual necessity; the numberless invita- 
tions he had received to dine, even after his losses, were 
yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved to accept 
of a dinner, because he wanted one ; and in this manner 
he actually lived among his friends a whole week without 
being openly affronted. The last place I saw him in was 
at a reverend divine's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked 
the time of dinner, for he came in as the cloth was lay- 
ing. He took a chair, without being desired, and talked 
for some time without being attended to. He assured 
the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite 
as a walk in the Park, where he had been that morning. 
He went on, and praised the figure of the damask table- 
cloth ; talked of a feast where he had been the day be- 
fore, but that the venison was over-done. But all this 
procured him no invitation : finding, therefore, the gen- 
tleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he 
thought proper, at last to retire, and mend his appetite by 
a second walk in the Park. 

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether 
in rags or lace, whether in Kent street or the Mall, 



398 ESSAYS. 

■whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I be per- 
mitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want the 
favor which "you solicit. Apply to every passion but 
human pity for redress : you may find permanent relief 
from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but from 
compassion never. The very eloquence of a poor man 
is disgusting ; and that mouth which is opened even by 
wisdom, is seldom expected to close without the horrors 
of a petition. 

To ward off the gripe of poverty, you must pretend to 
be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with 
ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a half-penny 
porringer of peas-soup and potatoes, praise the whole- 
someness of your frugal repast. You may observe that 
Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-broth for the gravel ; 
hint that you are not one of those who are always making 
a deity of your belly. If, again, you are obliged to wear 
a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to re- 
mark, that stuffs are very much worn at Paris ; or, if 
there be found any irreparable defects in any part of 
your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts 
of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say, that 
neither you nor Sir Samson Gideon were ever very fond 
of dress. If you be a philosopher, hint that Plato or 
Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the 
company that man ought to be content with a bare cover- 
ing, since what now is so much his pride, was formerly 
his shame. In short, however caught, never give out ; 
but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others 
might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your cir- 
cumstances. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain 



ESSAYS. 397 

method never to rise ; pride in the great is hateful ; in 
the wise it is ridiculous ; but beggarly pride is a rational 
vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuse. 



ON GENEROSITY AND JUSTICE. 

Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the whole 
world admires. His generosity is such, that it prevents 
a demand, and saves the receiver the confusion of a re- 
quest. His liberality also does not oblige more by its 
greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. Some- 
times he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and 
has been knov/n to do good offices to those who professed 
themselves his enemies. All the world are unanimous in 
the praise of his generosity : there is only one sort of 
people who complain of his conducts Lysippus does not 
pay his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so 
seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness 
in being generous, and there is only simple justice in 
satisfying creditors. Generosity is the part of a soul 
raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of 
what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of 
rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mechanic virtue, 
only fit for tradesmen, and what is practised by every 
broker in Change-alley. 

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it 
is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should Ly- 
sippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of 
34 



telling it to the world ? Generosity js a virtue of a very 
different complexion. It is raised above duty, and from 
its elevation attracts the attention and the praises of us 
little mortals below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon justice 
and generosity. The first is despised, though a virtue 
essential to the good of society, and the other attracts our 
esteem, which too frequently proceeds from an impetuosity 
of temper, rather directed by vanity than reason. Ly- 
sippus is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, 
and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for the same 
sum. He gives it without hesitating to the latter, for he 
demands as a favor what the former requires as a debt. 

Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted 
with the import of the word justice : it is commonly be- 
lieved to consist only in a performance of those duties to 
which the laws of society can oblige us. This I allow is 
sometimes the import of the word, and in this sense 
justice is distinguished from equity; but there is a justice 
still more extensive, and which can be shown to embrace 
all the virtues united. 

Justice may be defined, that virtue which impels us to 
give to every person what is his due. In this extended 
sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every 
virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. 
Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, 
are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. 
Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue ; and 
all the rest have their origin in it. 

The qualities of candor, fortitude, charity, and gene- 
rosity, for instance,, are not in their own nature virtues ; 



399 



and if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to jus- 
tice, which impels and directs them. Without such a 
moderator, candor might become indiscretion, fortitude 
obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken 
profusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, 
is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently 
even turns to vice. The expenses of society, of presents, 
of entertainments, and the other helps to cheerfulness, are 
actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better 
method of disposing of our superfluities ; but they become 
vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from 
a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary as 
those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed on us 
by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a ration- 
al being. But this generosity does not consist in obeying 
every impulse of humanity, in following blind passion for 
our guide, and impairing our circumstances by present 
benefactions, so as to render us incapable of future ones. 

Misers are generally characterized as men without 
honor, or without humanity, who live only to accumulate, 
and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. They 
have been described as madmen, who, in the midst of 
abundance, banish every pleasure, and make, from imagi- 
nary wants, real necessities. But few, very few, cor- 
respond to this exaggerated picture ; and, perhaps, there 
is not one in whom all these circumstances are found 
united. Instead of this, we find the sober and the indus- 
trious branded by the vain and the idle with this odious 
appellation ; men who, by frugality and labor, raise them- 



400 ESSAYS. 

selves above their equals, and contribute their share of 
industry to the common stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well were 
it for society, had we more of these characters amongst 
us. In general these close men are found at last the true 
benefactors of society. With an avaricious man we sel- 
dom lose in our dealings, but too frequently in our com- 
merce with prodigality. 

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for a 
long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to re- 
lieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skilful 
management of his vineyard, had the good fortune to ac- 
quire immense sums of money. The inhabitants of 
Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, detested him ; and 
the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, 
followed him with shouts of contempt. He still, however, 
continued his former simplicity of life, his amazing and 
unremitted frugality. He had long perceived the wants 
of the poor in the city, particularly in having no water 
but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; 
wherefore, that whole fortune which he had been amass- 
ing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor 
more useful and lasting service, than if he had dis- 
tributed his whole income in charity every day at his 
door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too fre- 
quently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have 
been now complaining. We find the studious animated 
with a strong passion for the great virtues, as they are 
mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary 
ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally 



ESSAYS. ' 401 

rather exhausted on those supererogatory duties, than on 
such as are indispensably necessary. A man, therefore, 
who has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, 
generally comes into the world with a heart melting at 
every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced, by misplac- 
ed liberality, to put himself into the indigent circumstan- 
ces of the person he relieves. 

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of 
the ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving away 
all his substance to pretended distress. ' It is possible, 
that the person you relieve may be an honest man ; and 
I know that you, who relieve him, are such. You see 
then, by your generosity, that you rob a man who is cer- 
tainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may possibly be 
a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in rewarding uncer- 
tain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself.'* 



ON THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH. 

As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few 
have been more frequently written upon, than the educa- 
tion of youth. Yet it is a little surprising that it has 
been treated almost by all in a declamatory manner. 
They have insisted largely on the advantages that result 
from it, both to individuals and to society ; and have ex- 
patiated in the praise of what none have ever been so 
hardy as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us_ fine but empty harangues upon 
this subject, instead of indulging each his particular and 



34* 



402 ESSAYS. 

whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers 
on this subject had treated it in a more scientific manner, 
repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given us the 
result of their observations with didactic simplicity. Up- 
on this subject, the smallest errors are of the most dan- 
gerous consequence, and the author should venture the 
imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where his slightest 
deviations may tend to injure the rising generation. How- 
ever, such are the whimsical and erroneous productions 
written upon this subject. Their authors have studied to 
be uncommon, not to be just ; and at present, we want a 
treatise upon education, not to tell us anything new, but 
to explode the errors which have been introduced by the 
admirers of novelty. It is in this manner books become 
numerous ; a desire of novelty produces a book, and 
other books are required to destroy the former. 

I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this 
subject, which, though known, have not been attended to 
by others ; and shall dismiss all attempts to please, while 
I study only instruction. 

The manner in which our youth of London are at pres- 
ent educated, is, some in free-schools in the city, but the 
far greater number in boarding-schools about town. The 
parent justly consults the health of his child and finds 
an education in the country tends to promote this, much 
more than a continuance in town. Thus far he is right ; 
if there were a possibility of having even our free-schools 
kept a little out of town, it would certainly conduce to the 
health and vigor of, perhaps, the mind as well as the body. 
It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found 
by experience, that they, who have spent all their lives 



ESSAYS. 403 

in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but 
even of thinking. 

But when I have said that the boarding-schools are 
preferable to free-schools, as being in the country, this is 
certainly the only advantage I can allow them : otherwise 
it is impossible to conceive the ignorance of those who 
take upon them the important trust of education. Is any 
man unfit for any of the professions, he finds his last re- 
source in setting up a school. Do any become bankrupts 
in trade, they still set up a boarding-school, and drive a 
trade this way, when all others fail; nay, I have been 
told of butchers and barbers, who have turned school- 
masters ; and, more surprising still, made fortunes in their 
new profession. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized 
people, could it be conceived that we have any regard for 
posterity, when such are permitted to take the charge of 
the morals, genius, and health, of those dear little pledges, 
who may one day be the guardians of the liberties of 
Europe ; and who may serve as the honor and bulwark 
of their aged parents ? The care of our children, is it 
below the state ? Is it fit to indulge the caprice of the 
ignorant with the disposal of their children in this partic- 
plar ? For the state to take the charge of all it's child- 
ren, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconve- 
nient .; but surely, with great ease, it might cast an eye 
to their instructors. Of all professions in society^ I do 
not know a more useful, or a more honorable one, than a 
schoolmaster; at the same time that I do not see any 
more generally despised, or whose talents are so ill re- 
warded. 



404 ESSAYS. 

"Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented 
from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it turn 
to the advantage of this people ! a people whom, without 
flattery, I may, in other respects, term the wisest and 
greatest upon earth. But while I would reward the de- 
serving, I would dismiss those utterly unqualified for 
their employment ; in short, I would make the business 
of a schoolmaster every way more respectable by in- 
creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of proper 
abilities. 

It is true we have schoolmasters appointed, and they 
have some small salaries ; but where at present there is 
only one schoolmaster appointed, there should at least be 
two ; and wherever the salary is at present twenty pounds, 
it should be a hundred. Do we give immoderate bene- 
fices to those who instruct ourselves, and shall we deny 
even subsistence to those who instruct our children? 
Every member of society should be paid in proportion 
as he is necessary ; and I will be bold enough to say, 
that schoolmasters in a state are more necessaiy than 
clergymen, as children stand in more need of instruction 
than their parents. 

But instead of this, as I have already observed, we 
send them to board in the country, to the most ignorant 
set of men that can be imagined. But, lest the ignorance 
of the master be not sufficient, the child is generally con- 
signed to the usher. This is commonly some poor needy 
animal, little superior to a footman either in learning or 
spirit, invited to his place by an advertisement, and kept 
there merely from his being of a complying disposition, 
and making the children fond of him. ' You give your 



405 



child to be educated to a slave/ says a philosopher to a 
rich man ; ' instead of one slave you will then have two.' 
It were well, however, if parents upon fixing their 
children in one of these houses, would examine the abili- 
ties of the usher, as well as the master ; for whatever 
they are told to the contrary, the usher is generally the 
person most employed in their education. If, then, a 
gentleman, upon putting his son to one of these houses, 
sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may depend 
upon it, that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; the 
truth is, in spite of all their endeavors to please, they 
are generally the laughing-stock of the school. Every 
trick is played upon the usher : the oddity of his manners, 
his dress, or his language, are a fund of eternal ridicule ; 
the master himself, now and then, cannot avoid joining in 
the laugh ; and the poor wretch, eternally resenting this 
ill-usage, seems to live in a state of war with all the fam- 
ily. This is a very proper person, is it not, to give chil- 
dren a relish for learning ? They must esteem learning 
very much, when they see its professors used with such 
little ceremony ! If the usher be despised, the father 
may be assured that his child will never be properly in- 
structed. 

• But let me suppose that there are some schools without 
these inconveniences, where the masters and ushers are 
men of learning, reputation, and assiduity. If there are 
to be found such, they cannot be prized in a state suffi- 
ciently. A boy will learn more true wisdom in a public 
school in a year, than by private education in five. It is 
not from masters, but from their equals, youth learn a 
knowledge of the world ; the little tricks they play each 



406 ESSAYS. 

other, the punishment that frequently attends the com- 
mission, is a just picture of the great world ; and all the 
ways of men are practised in a public school in miniature. 
It is true, a child is early made acquainted with some 
vices in a school ; but it is better to know these when a 
boy, than be first taught them when a man ; for their 
novelty then may have irresistible charms. 

In a public education, boys early learn temperance ; 
and if the parents and friends would give them less money 
upon their usual visits, it would be much to their advan- 
tage ; since it may justly be said, that a great part of their 
disorders arise from surfeit, ' plus occidit gula quam gla- 
dius.' And now I am come to the article of health, it 
may not be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and some 
others have advised that children should be inured to cold, 
to fatigue, and hardship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke 
was but an indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has 
great influence over our constitutions ; but we have not 
precise ideas upon this subject. 

We know that among savages, and even among our 
peasants, there are found children born with such consti- 
tutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, endure cold, 
thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a surprising degree ; 
that when they happen to fall sick, they are cured with- 
out the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such exam- 
ples are adduced to persuade us to imitate their manner 
of education, and accustom ourselves betimes to support 
the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered 
first how many lives are lost in this ascetic practice ; had 
they considered, that those savages and peasants are gen- 
erally not so long lived as they who have led a more 



407 



indolent life ; that the more laborious the life is, the less 
populous is the country ; had they considered, that what 
physicians call the l stamina vitas,' by fatigue and labor 
become rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; that the num- 
ber who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion to 
those who die in the experiment ; had these things been 
properly considered, they would not have thus extolled 
an education begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the 
Great, willing to inure the children of his seamen to a 
life of hardship, ordered that they should only drink sea- 
water ; but they unfortunately all died under the trial. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary labors, yet 
still I would recommend temperance in the highest de- 
gree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, nothing 
given children to force an appetite ; as little sugared or 
salted provisions as possible, though ever so pleasing ; but 
milk, morning and night, should be their constant food. 
This diet would make them more healthy than any of 
those slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a 
boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consumptive 
habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of 
city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, so the 
first greatest lesson that should be taught them is to 
admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue 
alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of soci- 
ety. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon this 
subject, may make some boys, when they grow up, run 
into an extreme, and become misers ; but it were well, 
had we more misers than we have amongst us. I know 
few characters more useful in society ; for a man's having 



408 ESSAYS. 

a larger or smaller share of money lying useless by him, 
no way injures the commonwealth ; since, should every 
miser now exhaust his stores, this might make gold more 
plenty, but it would not increase the commodities or plea- 
sures of life ; they would still remain as they are at 
present : it matters not, therefore, whether men are misers 
or not, if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill the station 
they have chosen. If they deny themselves the neces- 
saries of life, society is no way injured by their folly. 

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young 
men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, 
and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly and ex- 
travagance, in riches and matrimony, there should be 
some men of wit employed to compose books that might 
equally interest the passions of our youth, where such a 
one might be praised for having resisted allurements 
when young, and how he, at last, became lord mayor ; 
how he was married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and 
beauty : to be as explicit as possible, the old story of 
. Whittington, were his cat left out, might be more service- 
able to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joseph 
Andrews, or a hundred others, where frugality is the only 
good quality the hero is not possessed of. Were our 
schoolmasters, if any of them have sense enough to draw 
up such a work, thus employed, it would be much more 
serviceable to their pupils, than all the grammars and 
dictionaries they may publish these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts from 
which they may afterwards draw the greatest advantages. 
When the wonders of nature are never exposed to our 
view, we have no great desire to become acquainted with 



409 



those parts of learning which pretend to account for the 
phenomena. One of the ancients complains, that as soon 
as young men have left school, and are obliged to con- 
verse with the world, they fancy themselves transported 
into a new region. " Ut, cum in forum venerint, existi- 
ment se in alium terrarum orbem delatos." We should 
early, therefore, instruct them in the experiments, if I 
may so express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer 
age the accounting for the causes. But, instead of that, 
when boys begin natural philosophy in colleges, they have 
not the least curiosity for those parts of the science which 
are proposed for their instruction ; they have never be- 
fore seen the phenomena, and consequently have no cu- 
riosity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, 
therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this means 
it would in college become their amusement. 

In several of the machines now in use, there would be 
ample field both for instruction and amusement; the dif- 
ferent sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial pyrites, mag- 
netism, electricity, the experiments upon the rarefaction 
and weight of the air, and those upon elastic bodies, 
might employ their idle hours ; and none should be called 
from play to see such experiments but such as thought 
proper. At first, then, it would be sufficient if the instru- 
ments, and the effects of their combination, were only 
shown ; the causes would be deferred to a maturer age, 
or to those times when natural curiosity prompts us to 
discover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in this 
world as a spectator ; when he is tired of wondering at all 
the novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire 
35 



410 



to be made acquainted with the causes that create those 
wonders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural philoso- 
phy, I would extend to every other science whatsoever. 
We should teach them as many of the facts as were pos- 
sible, and defer the causes until they seemed of them- 
selves desirous of knowing them. A mind thus leaving 
school, stored with all the simple experiences of science, 
would be the fittest in the world for the college-course ; 
and, though such a youth might not appear so bright or 
so talkative, as those who had learned the real principles 
and causes of some of the sciences, yet he would make a 
wiser man, and would retain a more lasting passion for 
letters, than he who was early burdened with the disa- 
greeable institution of effect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid before 
them as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, 
they are too frequently obliged to toil through the four 
empires, as they are called, where their memories are 
burdened by a number of disgusting names, that destroy 
all their future relish for our best historians, who may be 
termed the truest teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided ; 
a boy who happens to say a sprightly thing is generally 
applauded so much, that he sometimes continues a cox- 
comb all his life after. He is reputed a wit at four- 
teen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, foot- 
men, and such, should therefore be driven away as 
much as possible. I was even going to add, that the 
mother herself should stifle her pleasure or her vanity, 
when little master happens to say a good or a smart 



411 



thing. Those modest, lubberly boys, who seem to want 
spirit, generally go through their business with more ease 
to themselves, and more satisfaction to their instructors. 

There has, of late, a gentleman appeared, who thinks 
the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect education. 
That bold male eloquence, which often, without pleasing, 
convinces, is generally destroyed by such institutions. 
Convincing eloquence is infinitely more serviceable to its 
possessor, than the most florid harangue, or the most pa- 
thetic tones, that can be imagined ; and the man who is 
thoroughly convinced himself, who understands his sub- 
ject, and the language he speaks in, will be more apt to 
silence opposition, than he who studies the force of his 
periods, and fills our ears with sounds, while our minds 
are destitute of conviction. 

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline 
of the Roman empire, when they had been long instruct- 
ed by rhetoricians, that their periods were so harmonious, 
as that they could be sung as well as spoken. What a 
ridiculous figure must one of these gentlemen cut, thus 
measuring syllables, and weighing words, when he should 
plead the cause of his client ! Two architects were 
once candidates for the building a certain temple at Ath- 
ens ; the first harangued the crowd very learnedly upon 
the different orders of architecture, and showed them in 
what manner the temple should be built ; the other, who 
got up after him, only observed, that what his brother 
had spoken, he could do ; and thus he at once gained his 
cause. 

To teach men to be orators, is little less than to teach 
them to be poets ; and for my part, I should have too 



412 ESSAYS. 

great a regard for my child, to wish him a manor only in 
a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion which the present age is apt to run 
into, is to make children learn all things ; the languages, 
the sciences, music, the exercises, and painting. Thus the 
child soon becomes a talker in all, but a master in none. 
He thus acquires a superficial fondness for everything, 
and only shows his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit 
his skill. 

As I deliver my thoughts, without method, or con- 
nection, so the reader must not be surprised to find me 
once more addressing schoolmasters on the present meth- 
od of teaching the learned languages, which is commonly 
by literal translations. I would ask such, if they were to 
travel a journey, whether those parts of the road in which 
they found the greatest difficulties, would not be the most 
strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the 
allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the as- 
sistance of a translation, can have but a very slight ac- 
quaintance either with the author or his language. It is . 
by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is 
learned; but a literal translation on the opposite page, 
leaves no exercise for the memory at all. The boy will 
not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts 
are at once satisfied by a glance of the eye : whereas, 
were every word to be sought from a dictionary, the 
learner would attempt to remember them, to save himself 
the trouble of looking out for them for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the va- 
rious grammars now taught in the schools about town, I 
would recommend only the old common one. I have forgot 



ESSAYS. 413 

whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others 
may be improvements ; but such improvements seem to 
me only mere grammatical niceties, no way influencing 
the learner; but perhaps loading him with subtilties, 
which at a proper age, he must be at some pains to 
forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the learn- 
ing of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he may de- 
pend upon it, it will be at first extremely unpleasant. 
The rudiments of every language, therefore, must be 
given as a task, not as an amusement. Attenuating to de- 
ceive children into instruction of this kind, is only de- 
ceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of 
conquering a child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon 
has said it before me ; nor is there any more certain, 
though perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb 
in verse, too well known to repeat on the present occasion. 
It is very probable that parents are told of some masters 
who never use the rod, and consequently are thought the 
properest instructors for their children ; but, though ten- 
derness is a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there is 
too often the truest tenderness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passions should 
be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know not 
how, there is a frailty attending human nature that few 
masters are able to keep their temper whilst they correct. 
I knew a good-natured man, who was sensible of his own 
weakness in this respect, and consequently had recoure to 
the following expedient to prevent his passions from be- 
ing engaged, yet at the same time administer justice with 
impartiality. Whenever any of his pupils committed a 
35* 



414 ESSAYS. 

fault, he summoned a jury of bis peers, I mean of the 
boys of his own or the next classes to him : his accusers 
stood forth ; he had liberty of pleading in his own de- 
fence, and one or two more had the liberty of pleading 
against him ; when found guilty by the pannel, he was 
consigned to the footman, who attended in the house, and 
had previous orders to punish, but with lenity. By this 
means the master took off the odium of punishment from 
himself; and the footman, between whom and the boys 
there could not be even the slightest intimacy, was placed 
in such a light as to be shunned by every boy in the 
school. 



ON THE VERSATILITY OE POPULAR EAVOR. 

An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived 
at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement 
of the last war with France, pulled doAvn his old sign, 
and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the 
influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued 
to sell ale, till she was no longer the favorite of his cus- 
tomers ; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the 
King of Prussia ; who may probably be changed in turn, 
for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar 
admiration. 

Our publican, in this, imitates the great exactly ; who 
deal out their figures, one after the other, to the gazing 
crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered at one, 
that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which 



ESSAYS. 415 

seldom holds its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased 
with variety. 

I must own, I have such an indifferent opinion of the 
vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which 
raises their shout; at least, I am certain to find those 
great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in 
such acclamations, made worse by it ; and history has 
too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown 
this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very 
next been fixed upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the 
neighborhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated 
by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy in the 
market place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure 
which had been designed to represent himself. There 
were also some knocking down a neighboring statue of 
one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in 
order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possi- 
ble a man who knew less of the world would have con- 
demned the adulation of those barefaced flatterers ; but 
Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to 
Borgia, his son, said with a smile, " Vides, mi fili, quam 
leve discrimen patibulum inter et statuam: — You see, 
my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a 
statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this 
might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation 
their glory stands, which is built upon popular applause ; 
for as such praise what seems like merit, they as quickly 
condemn what has only the appearance of guilt. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquette ; her lovers must 
toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; and, 



416 



perhaps, at last, be jilted into the bargain. True glory, 
on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense : her 
admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great anxiety, 
for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded in pro- 
portion to their merit. When Swift used to appear in 
public, he generally had the mob shouting in his train. 
" Pox take these fools," he would say ; " how much joy 
might all this bawling give my lord mayor ! " 

We have seen those virtues which have, while living, 
retired from the public eye, generally transmitted to 
posterity as the truest objects of admiration and praise. 
Perhaps the character of the late Duke of Marlborough 
may one day be set up, even above that of his more 
talked-of predecessor; since an assemblage of all the 
mild and amiable virtues are far superior to those vulgar- 
ly called the great ones. I must be pardoned for this 
short tribute to the memory of a man, who, while living, 
would as much detest to receive any thing that wore the 
appearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the 
beaten road of common-place, except by illustrating it 
rather by the assistance of my memory than judgment; 
and, instead of making reflections, by telling a story. 

A Chinese who had long studied the works of Confu- 
cius, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, 
and could read a great part of every book that came in 
his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, 
and observe the customs of a people whom he thought 
not very much inferior, even to his own countrymen, in 
the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his arri- 
val at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led 



ESSAYS. 417 

him into a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could speak a little 
Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the 
immortal Xixofou. The bookseller assured him he had 
never heard the book mentioned before. " What ! have 
you never heard of that immortal poet ? " returned the 
other, much surprised ; " that light of the eyes, that favor- 
ite of kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose you know 
nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the 
moon?" "Nothing at all, indeed, sir," returned the 
other. " Alas ! " cries our traveller, " to what purpose, 
then, has one of these fasted to death, and the other 
offered himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartar enemy, to 
gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the pre- 
cincts of China?" 

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one uni- 
versity, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. 
The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the de- 
signs of a prince, who would tyranically force his subjects 
to save their best clothes for Sundays ; the puny pedant 
who finds one undiscovered property in the polype, or 
describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, 
and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature 
only in detail ; the rhymer who makes smooth verses, and 
paints to our imagination, when he should only speak to 
our hearts : all equally fancy themselves walking forward 
to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look 
on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, phi- 
losopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. — " Where 
was there ever so much merit seen? No times so impor- 
tant as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder 
and applause!" To such music, the important pigmy 



418 ESSAYS. 

moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly compared 
to a puddle in a storm. 

I have lived to see generals who once had crowds hal- 
looing after them wherever they went, who were be- 
praised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes of the 
voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into 
merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to 
flatter. A few years ago the herring fishery employed 
all Grub-street ; it was the topic in every coffee-house, 
and the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up 
oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to 
supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. 
At present we hear no more of all this. We have fished 
up very little gold, that I can learn ; nor do we furnish 
the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait 
but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expec- 
tations a herring-fishery. 



SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE IN MINIATURE. 

We essayists, who are allowed but one subject at a 
time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of mag- 
azines, who write upon several. If a magaziner be dull 
upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up again with the 
ghost in Cock-lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon 
that, he is quickly roused by an eastern tale ; tales pre- 
pare us for poetry, and poetry for the meteorological 
history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a mag- 
azine, never to be long dull upon one subject ; and the 



ESSAYS. 419 

reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least the comfortable 
refreshment of having the spur often changed. 

As I see no reason why they should carry off all the 
rewards of genius, I have some thoughts, for the future, 
of making this essay a magazine in miniature : I shall 
hop from subject to subject, and if properly encouraged, 
I intend in time to adorn my feuille-volant with pictures. 
But to begin, in the usual form, with 

A modest Address to the Public. 

The public has been so often imposed upon by the un- 
performing promises of others, that it is with the utmost 
modesty we assure them of our inviolable design of giving 
the very best collection that ever astonished society. The 
public we honor and regard, and therefore to instruct and 
entertain them is our highest ambition, with labors calcu- 
lated as well to the head as the heart. If four extraordi- 
nary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our 
wit, we may at least boast the honor of vindicating our 
own abilities. To say more in favor of the Infernal Mag- 
azine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, would 
be injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested 
motives for this undertaking, being a society of gentlemen 
of distinction, we disdain to eat or write like hirelings ; 
we are all gentlemen, resolved to sell our sixpenny mag- 
azine merely for our own amusement. 

Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 



420 ESSAYS. 

DEDICATION. 

TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OF ALL PATRONS, THE 
TR1POLINE AMBASSADOR. 

May it please } r our Excellency, 
As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed and 
admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Magazine to 
lay the following sheets humbly at your excellency's toe ; 
and should our labors ever have the happiness of one day 
adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influ- 
ence wherewith we are honored, shall be ever retained 
with the most warm ardor by, 

May it please your Excellency, 

Your most devoted humble servants, 

The Authors of the Infernal Magazine. 



A SPEECH, 

SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER, TO PERSUADE HIS 
CLUB AT CATEATON NOT TO DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. 

My honest friends and brother politicians, I perceive 
that the intended war with Spain makes many of you 
uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the stocks rose, and 
you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are again mis- 
erable. But, my dear friends, what is the rising or falling 
of the stocks to us, who have no money ? Let Nathan 
Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for this ; but 
my good Mr. Bellows-mender, what is all this to you or 
me ? You must mend broken bellows, and I write bad 



421 



prose, as long as we live, whether we like a Spanish war 
or not. Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you 
may talk of liberty and your own reason, both that liberty 
and reason are conditionally resigned by every poor man 
in every society ; and as we were born to work, so others 
are born to watch over us while we are working. In the 
name of common sense then, my good friends, let the 
great keep watch over us, and let us mind our business, 
and perhaps we may at last get money ourselves, and set 
beggars at work in our turn. I have a Latin sentence 
that is worth its weight in gold, and which I shall beg 
leave to translate for your instruction. An author, called 
Lily's Grammar, finely observes, that "JEs in present i 
perfectum format :" that is, " Ready money makes a per- 
fect man." Let us then get ready money, and let them 
that will, spend theirs by going to war with Spain. 

EULES FOE BEHAVIOE. 

DRAWN UP BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER. 

If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with 
three loud hems, march deliberately up to the chimney, 
and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor man, I 
would advise you to shrink into the room as fast as you 
can, and place yourself, as usual, upon the corner of a 
chair, in a remote corner. 

"When you are desired to sing in company, I would ad- 
vise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to one but that 
you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. 

If you be young, and live with an old man, I would 
advise you not to like gravy. I was disinherited myself 
for liking gravy. 

36 



422 ESSAYS. 

Do not laugh much in public : the spectators that are 
not as merry as you, will hate you, either because they 
envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the subject of 
your mirth. 

RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. 

Translated from the Latin of Danaeus de Sort.iariis, a writer 
contemporary with Calvin, and one of the Reformers of our 
Church. 

The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sacrifice 
a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, to Beel- 
zebub. He is to swear an eternal obedience, and then to 
receive a mark in some unseen place, either under the 
eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil 
himself. Upon this he has power given him over three 
spirits ; one for earth, another for air, and a third for the 
sea. Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of 
magicians, in which each is to give an account of what 
evil he has done, and what he wishes to do. At this as- 
sembly he appears in the shape of an old man, or often 
like a goat with large horns. They, upon this occasion, 
renew their vows of obedience ; and then form a grand 
dance in honor of their false deity. The deity instructs 
them in every method of injuring mankind, in gathering 
poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the air. He 
shows them the whole method, upon examination, of giv- 
ing evasive answers ; his spirits have power to assume 
the form of angels of light, and there is but one method 
of detecting them, viz. to ask them in proper form, what 
method is the most certain to propagate the faith over all 



ESSAYS. 423 

the world? To this they are not permitted by the supe- 
rior Power to make a false reply, nor are they willing to 
give the true one ; wherefore they continue silent, and 
are thus detected. 



BEAU TIBBS: A CHARACTER. 

Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay com- 
pany, and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the 
mind from duty. From this motive I am often found in 
the centre of a crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be 
sold, am always a purchaser. In those places, without 
being remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward, 
work my passions into a similitude of frivolous earnest- 
ness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen 
to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its 
natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as those 
first retire who would spring forward with greater vigor. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend and 
I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the pub- 
lic walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for 
some time, either praising the beauty of such as were 
handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to 
recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately 
forward for some time, when my friend., stopping on a 
sudden, caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the 
public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his 
pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was 
attempting to avoid somebody who followed : we now 
turned to the right, then to the left : as we went forward, 



424 ( ESSAYS. 

he still went faster, but in vain ; the person whom he at- 
tempted to escape, hunted us through every doubling, 
and gained upon us each moment ; so that at last we 
fairly stood still, resolving to face what we could not 
avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the 
familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My dear Charles," 
cries he, shaking my friend's hand, " where have you 
been hiding this half a century ? Positively, I had fancied 
you had gone down to cultivate matrimony and your 
estate in the country." During the reply, I had an op- 
portunity of surveying the appearance of our new com- 
panion. His hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness : 
his looks were pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck he 
wore a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle 
studded with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnished 
twist ; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt : 
and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were 
grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged 
with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to 
the latter part of my friend's reply ; in which he com- 
plimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the 
bloom in his countenance. " Psha, psha, Charles," cries 
the figure, " no more of that if you love me : you know I 
hate flattery, on my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an in- 
timacy with the great will improve one's appearance, and 
a course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I despise 
the great as much as you do : but there are a great 
many damned honest fellows among them, and we must 
not quarrel with one half because the other wants breed- 
ing. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one 



ESSAYS. 425 

of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a 
lemon, I should myself be among the number of their 
admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of 
Piccadilly's. My Lord was there. Ned, says he to me, 
Ned, says he, I will hold gold to silver I can tell where 
you were poaching last night. Poaching ! my lord, says 
I; faith you have missed already; for I staid at home 
and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I take 
a fine woman as some animals do their prey ; stand still, 
and swoop, they fall into my mouth." 

" Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my com- 
panion, with looks of infinite pity. " I hope your fortune 
is as much improved as your understanding in such com- 
pany." " Improved ! " replied the other, "you shall know 
— but let it go no farther, — a great secret — five hun- 
dred a year to begin with. — My lord's word of honor for 
it — His lordship took me in his own chariot yesterday, 
and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the country, where we 
talked of nothing else." " I fancy you forgot, sir," cried 
I, " you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday 
in town ? " " Did I say so ? " replied he, coolly. " To be 
sure, if I said so, it was so. — Dined in town : egad, now 
I remember, I did dine in town ; but I dined in the coun- 
try too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners. 
By the by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. 
I will tell you a pleasant affair about that : we were a 
select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected 
piece, but let it go no farther ; a secret : Well, says I, I 
will hold a thousand guineas, and say Done first, that — 
But, dear Charles, you are an honest creature ; lend me 
half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till — But 
36* 



426 ESSAYS. 

hark'ee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may 
be twenty to one but I forget to pay you." 

When he left us, our conversation naturally turned 
upon so extraordinary a character. " His very dress," 
cries my friend, is not less extraordinary than his con- 
duct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags ; 
if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of dis- 
tinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarce a 
coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the inter- 
est of society, and, perhaps, for his own, Heaven has 
made him poor; and while all the world perceives his 
wants, he fancies them concealed from every eye. An 
agreeable companion, because he understands flattery: 
and all must be pleased with the first part of his conver- 
sation, though all are sure of its ending with a demand 
on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity 
of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsist- 
ence ; but, when age comes on, the gravity of which is 
incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself 
forsaken by all ; condemned in the decline of life to hang 
upon some rich family whom he once despised, there to 
undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt ; to be em- 
ployed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
fright children into duty." 



BEAU TIBBS — CONTINUED. 

There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy 
matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook 
me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on 



427 



the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect 
familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that 
he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, and 
had on a pair of Temple spectacles, and his hat under 
his arm. 

As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, 
I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity ; 
so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, 
and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics pre- 
liminary to particular conversation. 

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon 
began to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed per- 
sons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, 
appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a 
pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all 
the company with much importance and assiduity. In 
this manner he led me through the length of the whole 
Mall, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself 
laughed at as well as him by every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our procession, 
" Blast me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, " I never 
saw the Park so thin in my life before ; there 's no com- 
pany at all to-day. Not a single face to be seen." " No 
company," interrupted I, peevishly, " no company where 
there is such a crowd ! Why, man, there is too much. 
What are the thousands that have been laughing at us 
but company?" "Lord, my dear," returned he with the 
utmost good-humor, " you seem immensely chagrined ; 
but, blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at 
the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill 
Squash, the Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at 



428 essays. 

being ridiculous ; and so we say and do a thousand things 
for the joke's sake. But I see you are grave ; and if 
you are for a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall 
dine with my wife to-day ; I must insist on 't ; I '11 intro- 
duce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications 
as any in nature ; she was bred, but that 's between our- 
selves, under the inspection of the countess of Shoreditch. 
A charming body of voice ! But no more of that — she 
shall give us a song. You shall see my little girl, too, 
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty crea- 
ture ; I design her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son ; 
but that 's in friendship, let it go no farther ; she 's but 
six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on 
the guitar, immensely, already. I intend she shall be as 
perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first 
place, I '11 make her a scholar ; I '11 teach her Greek my- 
self, and I intend to learn that language purposely to in- 
struct her, but let that be a secret." 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me 
by the arm and hauled me along. We passed through 
many dark alleys, and winding ways ; for, from some 
motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular 
aversion to every frequented street ; at last, however, we 
got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets 
of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for 
the benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which seemed ever to lie 
most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and 
creaking staircase ; when, as he mounted to show me the 
way, he demanded, whether I delighted in prospects ; to 
which answering in the affirmative, " Then," said he, " I 



429 



shall show you one of the most charming out of my win- 
dows ; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country 
for twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord 
Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such a one ; 
but as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to 
keep my prospects at home, that my friends may come to 
see me the oftener." 

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs 
would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was 
facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney ; 
and, knocking at the door, a voice with a Scotch accent 
from within demanded, " Wha 's there ? " My conductor 
answered that it was he. But this not satisfying the 
querist, the voice again repeated the demand ; to which 
he answered louder than before ; and now the door was 
opened by an old maid-servant with cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house 
with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked 
where her lady was. " Good troth," replied she, in the 
northern dialect, " she 's washing your twa shirts at the 
next door, because they have taken an oath against lend- 
ing out the tub any longer." u My two. shirts !" cries he, 
in a tone that faltered with confusion, " what does the 
idiot mean?" — "I ken what I mean well enough," re- 
plied the other ; " she 's washing your twa shirts at the 
next door, because - — — " "Fire and fury, no more of 
thy stupid explanations," he cried. " Go and inform her we 
have got company. Were that Scotch hag," continued he, 
turning to me, " to be forever in my family, she would 
never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd, poisonous 
accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breed- 



430 ESSAYS. 

ing or high life ; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I 
had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine, from 
the Highlands, one of the politest men in the world ; but 
that 's a secret." 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs' arrival, during 
which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the 
chamber and all its furniture ; which consisted of four 
chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were 
his wife's embroidery ; a square table that had been once 
japanned ; a cradle in one corner, a lumber-cabinet in the 
other ; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a 
head, were stuck over the chimney ; and round the walls 
several paltry unframed pictures, which he observed were 
all of his own drawing. " What do you think, sir, of 
that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni ? 
There 's the true keeping in it ; it 's my own face ; and, 
though there happens to be no likeness, a countess offered 
me a hundred for its fellow : I refused her, for, hang it, 
that would be mechanical, you know." 

The wife at last made her appearance ; at once a slat- 
tern and coquette ; much emaciated, but still carrying the 
remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being 
seen in such an odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, 
as she had stayed out all night at Vauxhall Gardens with 
the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns, 
"And, indeed, my dear," added she, turning to her hus- 
band, " his lordship drank your health in a bumper." 
" Poor Jack ! " cries he, " a dear good-natured creature, I 
know he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given 
orders for dinner ; you need make no great preparations 
neither, there are but three of us ; something elegant, 



ESSAYS. 431 

and little will do ; a turbot, an ortolan, or a " " Or 

"' what do you think, my dear," interrupts the wife, " of a 
nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a 
little of my own sauce ? " " The very thing," replies he ; 
it will eat best with some smart bottled beer ; but be sure 
to let 's have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate 
your immense loads of meat ; that is country all over ; 
extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquaint- 
ed with high life." 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appe- 
tite to increase ; the company of fools may at first make 
us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melan- 
choly. I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engage- 
ment, and after having shown my respects to the house, 
by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I 
took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I 
stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours. 



ON THE IRRESOLUTION OF YOUTH. 

As it has been observed that few are better qualified 
to give others advice, than those who have taken the least 
of it themselves ; so in this respect I find myself perfectly 
authorized to offer mine ; and must take leave to throw 
together a few observations upon that part of a young 
man's conduct, on his entering into life, as it is called. 

The most usual way among young men who have no 
resolution of their own, is first to ask one friend's advice, 
and follow it for some time ; than to ask advice of anoth- 
er, and turn to that j so of a third, still unsteady, always 



432 ESSAYS. 

changing. However, every change of this nature is for 
the worse ; people may tell you of your being unfit for 
some peculiar occupations in life ; but heed them not ; 
whatever employment you follow with perseverance and 
assiduity, will be found fit for you; it will be your support 
in youth, and comfort in age. In learning the useful part 
of every profession, very moderate abilities will suffice : 
great abilities are generally obnoxious to the possessors. 
Life has been compared to a race ; but the allusion still 
improves by observing, that the most swift are ever the 
most apt to stray from the course. 

To know one profession only, is enough for one man to 
know ; and this, whatever the professors may tell you to 
the contrary, is soon learned. Be contented, therefore, 
with one good employment ; for if you understand two at 
a time, people will give ^ou business in neither. 

A conjurer and a tailor once happened to converse to- 
gether. " Alas ! " cries the tailor, " what an unhappy poor 
creature am I ! If people take it into their heads to live 
without clothes, I am undone ; I have no other trade to 
have recourse to." " Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely," 
replies the conjurer ; " but, thank Heaven, things are not 
quite so bad with me : for, if one trick should fail, I have 
a hundred tricks more for them yet. However, if at any 
time you are reduced to beggary, apply to me, and I will 
relieve you." A famine overspread the land ; the tailor 
made a shift to live, because his customers could not be 
without clothes ; but the poor conjurer, with all his hun- 
dred tricks, could find none that had money to throw 
away : it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, or to 
vomit pins ; no single creature would relieve him, till he 



433 



was at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose call- 
ing he had formerly despised. 

There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than 
pride and resentment. If you must resent injuries at all, 
at least suppress your indignation till you become rich, 
and then show away. The resentment of a poor man is 
like the efforts of a harmless insect to sting ; it may get 
him crushed, but cannot defend him. Who values that 
anger which is consumed only in empty menaces ? 

Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a pond- 
side ; and a goose, in such circumstances, is always ex- 
tremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any other 
animal, without the least design to offend, happened to 
pass that way, the goose was immediately at it. The 
pond, she said, was hers, and she would maintain her 
right in it, and support her honor, while she had a bill to 
hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove 
away ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious 
cat was seen to scamper. A lounging mastiff, however, 
happened to pass by, and thought it no harm if he should 
lap a little of the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian 
goose flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with her 
beak, and slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew 
angry, and had twenty times a mind to give her a sly 
snap ; but suppressing his indignation, because his master 
was nigh, " A pox take thee," cries he, " for a fool ; sure, 
those who have neither strength nor weapons to fight, at 
least should be civil." So saying, he went forward to the 
pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, and fol- 
lowed his master. 

Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that 
37 



434 ESSAYS. 

while tliey are willing to take offence from none, they are 
also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. From 
hence they endeavor to please all, comply with every re- 
quest, and attempt to suit themselves to every company ; 
have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch every con- 
tiguous impression. By thus attempting to give universal 
satisfaction, they at last find themselves miserably disap- 
pointed : to bring the generality of admirers on our side, 
it is sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few. 

A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a 
piece which should please the whole world. When, there- 
fore he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost skill 
was exhausted, it was exposed in the public market- 
place, with directions at the bottom for every spectator 
to mark with a brush, that lay by, eyary limb and feature 
which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in the 
general applauded ; but each, willing to show his talent 
at criticism, stigmatized whatever he thought proper. At 
evening, when the painter came, he was mortified to find 
the picture one universal blot, not a single stroke that had 
not the marks of disapprobation. Not satisfied with this 
trial, the next day he was resolved to try them in a dif- 
ferent manner : and exposing his picture as before, de- 
sired that every spectator would mark those beauties he 
approved or admired. The people complied, and the art- 
ist returning, found his picture covered with the marks of 
beauty; every stroke that had been yesterday condemned, 
now received the character of approbation. . "Well," 
cries the painter, " I now find that the best way to please 
all the world, is to attempt pleasing one half of it." 



435 



ON MAD DOGS. 

Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this island 
from many of those epidemic evils which are so fatal in 
other parts of the world. A want of rain for a few days 
beyond the expected season, in some parts of the globe, 
spreads famine, desolation, and terror, over the whole 
country ; but, in this fortunate island of Britain, the in- 
habitant courts health in every breeze, and the husband- 
man ever sows in joyful expectation. 

But though the nation be exempt from real evils, it is 
not more happy on this account than others. The people 
are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor pestilence ; 
but then there is a disorder peculiar to the country, which 
every season makes strange ravages among them ; it 
spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost ev- 
ery rank of people ; what is still more strange, the natives 
have no name for this peculiar malady, though well 
known to foreign physicians by the appellation of Epi- 
demic Terror. 

A season is never known to pass in which the people 
are not visited by this cruel calamity in one shape or 
another, seemingly different, though ever the same ; one 
year it issues from a baker's shop in the shape of a six- 
penny loaf, the next it takes the appearance of a comet 
with a fiery tail, the third it threatens like a flat-bottomed 
boat, and the fourth it carries consternation in the bite of a 
mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose their 
relish for happiness, saunter about with looks of despond- 
ence, ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no 
comfort but in heightening each other's distress. It is in- 



436 



significant how remote or near, how weak or powerful, 
the object of terror may be, when once they resolve to 
fright and be frighted ; the merest trifles sow consterna- 
tion and dismay ; each proportions his fears, not to the ' 
object, but to the dread he discovers in the countenance 
of others ; for, when once the fermentation is begun, it 
goes on of itself, though the original cause be discon- 
tinued which at first set it in motion. 

A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which 
now prevails, and the whole nation is at present actual- 
ly groaning under the malignity of its influence. The 
people sally from their houses with that circumspection 
which is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every 
turning. The physician publishes his prescription, the 
beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery 
arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in order to 
face the enemy, if he should offer to attack them. In 
short, the whole people stand bravely upon their defence, 
and seem, by their present spirit, to show a resolution of 
being tamely bit by mad dogs no longer. 

Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or 
no, somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom of try- 
ing witches. The old woman suspected was tied hand 
and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then 
she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if 
she sunk, then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, 
but drowned in the experiment. In the same manner a 
crowd gather round a dog suspected of madness, and they 
begin by teasing the devoted animal on every side. If 
he attempts to stand on the defensive, and bite, then he 
is unanimously found guilty, for " a mad dog always snaps 



ESSAYS. 437 

at everything." If, on the contrary, he strives to escape 
by running away, then he can expect no compassion, for 
" mad dogs always run straight forward before them." 

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who 
have no share in those ideal calamities, to mark the 
stages of this national disease. The terror at first feebly 
enters with a disregarded story of a little dog that had 
gone through a neighboring village, which was thought to 
be mad by several who had seen him. The next account 
comes, that a mastiff ran through a certain town, and bit 
five geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the 
bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes 
an affecting story of a little boy bit in the leg, and gone 
down to be dipped in the salt water. When the people 
have sufficiently shuddered at that, they are next con- 
gealed with a frightful account of a man who was said 
lately to have died from a bite he had received some 
years before. This relation only prepares the way for 
another, still more hideous ; as how the master of a fam- 
ily, with seven small children, were all bit by a mad lap- 
dog ; and how the poor father first perceived the infection 
by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the lap- 
dog swimming in the cup. 

When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every morn- 
ing comes loaded with some new disaster : as in stories of 
ghosts each loves to hear the account, though it only 
serves to make him uneasy ; so here, each listens with 
eagerness, and adds to the tidings with new circumstances 
of peculiar horror. A lady for instance, in the country, 
of very weak nerves, has been frighted by the barking 
of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently happens. The 
37* 



438 ESSAYS. 

story soon is improved, and spreads, that a mad dog had 
frighted a lady of distinction. These circumstances be- 
gin to grow terrible before they have reached the neigh- 
boring village ; and there the report is, that a lady of 
quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This account every 
moment gathers new strength, and grows more dismal as 
it approaches the capital ; and by the time it has arrived 
in town, the lady is described with wild eyes, foaming 
mouth, running mad upon all four, barking like a dog, 
biting her servants, and at last smothered between two 
beds by the advice of her doctors ; while the mad mastiff 
is, in the mean time, ranging the whole country over, 
slavering at the mouth, and seeking whom he may 
devour. 

My land-lady, a good-natured woman, but a little cred- 
ulous, waked me some mornings ago before the usual 
hour, with horror and astonishment in her looks. She 
desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to keep 
within ; for a few days ago, so dismal an accident had 
happened, as to put all the world upon their guard. A 
mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had bit a 
farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard 
and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as 
mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising 
herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes 
barking like a dog, and sometimes attempting to talk like 
the farmer. Upon examining the grounds of this story, I 
found my landlady had it from one neighbor, who had it 
from another neighbor, who heard it from very good au- 
thority. 

Were most stories of this nature well examined, it 



439 



would be found that numbers of such as have been said 
to suffer are in no way injured ; and that of those who 
have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was 
bit by a mad dog. Such accounts, in general, therefore, 
only serve to make the people miserable by false terrors ; 
and sometimes fright the patient into actual frenzy, by 
creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore. 

But even allowing three or four to die in a season of 
this terrible death (and four is probably too large a con- 
cession), yet still it is not considered how many are pre- 
served in their health and in their property by this devot- 
ed animal's services. The midnight robber is kept at a 
distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the health- 
ful chase repairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor 
man finds in his dog*a willing assistant, eager to lessen 
his toil, and content with the smallest retribution. 

" A dog," says one of the English poets, '•' is an honest 
creature, and I am a friend to dogs." Of all the beasts 
that graze the lawn, or hunt the forest, a dog is the only 
animal, that leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the 
friendship of man : to man he looks, in all his necessities, 
with speaking eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the 
little service in his power with cheerfulness and pleasure ; 
for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and resig- 
nation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity, no distress in- 
duce him to forsake his benefactor ; studious to please, 
and fearing to offend, he is still an humble, steadfast de- 
pendant ; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How 
unkind then to torture this faithful creature, who has left 
the forest to claim the protection of man ! How ungrate- 
ful a return to the trusty animal for all its services. 



440 ESSAYS. 

ON THE INCREASED LOVE OF LIFE WITH AGE. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our 
desire of living. Those dangers, which, in the vigor of 
youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as 
we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years in- 
crease, fear becomes at last the prevailing passion of the 
mind, and the small remainder of life is taken up in use- 
less efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued 
existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even 
the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of 
life which lies before me by that which I have already 
seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that 
my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity ; and 
sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger 
than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and 
sensation in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than 
either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; 
some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to 
pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every new disap- 
pointment increases my ardor to continue the game. 

Whence then is this increased love of life, which grows 
upon us with our years ! Whence comes it, that we thus 
make greater efforts to preserve our existence, at a period 
when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ! Is it that 
nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increas- 
es our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments ; 
and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips im- 
agination in the spoil ? Life would be insupportable to 
an old man, avIio, loaded with infirmities, feared death no 



441 



more than when in the vigor of manhood : the numberless 
calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of 
surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with 
his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; but hap- 
pily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when 
it could only be prejudicial ; and life acquires an imagi- 
nary value in proportion as its real value is no more. 

Our attachment to every object around us increases, in 
general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. " I 
would not choose," says a French philosopher, " to see an 
old post pulled up with which I had been long acquaint- 
ed." A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects, 
insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; visits them from 
habit, and parts from them with reluctance : from hence 
proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of posses- 
sion ; they love the world and all that it produces ; they 
love life and all its advantages ; not because it gives them 
pleasure, but because they have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, 
commanded that all who were unjustly detained in prison, 
during the preceding reigns, should be set free. Among 
the number who came to thank their deliverer on this 
occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling 
at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows : " Great 
father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years 
old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty- 
two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or 
without being even confronted by my accusers. I have 
now lived in solitude and darkness for more than sixty 
years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet daz- 
zled with the splendor of that sun to which you have re- 



442 ESSAYS. 

stored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out 
some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember 
me ; but my friends, my family, and relations, are all 
dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, 
to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former 
prison ; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleas- 
ing than the most splendid palace : I have not long to 
live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my 
days where my youth was passed, in that prison from 
whence you were pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that 
we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison ; 
we look round with discontent, are displeased with the 
abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases 
our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, 
the houses we have built, or the posterity we have be- 
gotten, all serve to bind us closer to the earth, and embit- 
ter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint- 
ance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once in- 
structive and amusing ; its company pleases ; yet, for all 
this, it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in 
years, life appears like an old friend ; its jests have been 
anticipated in former conversation ; it has no new story 
to make us smile, no new improvement with which to sur- 
prise ; yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoyment, 
still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure with in- 
•creasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish 
in the fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, 
brave — an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of 
his own, and the love of the king his master, which was 



443 



equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures before 
him, and promised a long succession of future happiness. 
He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted 
even at the beginning. He professed an aversion to 
living ; was tired of walking round the same circle ; had 
tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker 
at every repetition. " If life be, in youth, so displeasing," 
cried he to himself, " what will it appear when age comes 
on ? If it be at present indifferent, sure it will then be 
execrable." This thought imbittered every reflection ; till, 
at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he end- 
ed the debate with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man 
been apprised, that existence grows more desirable to us 
the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age 
without shrinking ; he would have boldly dared to live ; 
and serve that society, by his future assiduity, which he 
basely injured by his desertion. 



ON THE LADIES' PASSION FOR LEVELLING ALL 
DISTINCTION OF DRESS. 

Foreigners observe that there are no ladies in the 
w r orld more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those of 
England. Our country-women have been compared to 
those pictures, where the face is the work of a Raphael, 
but the draperies thrown out by some empty pretender, 
destitute of taste, and entirely unacquainted with design. 

If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion, 
that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages of 
dress, would be too powerful an antagonist for the opposite 
sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that our ladies 



444 ESSAYS. 

should want taste, lest their admirers should entirely want 
reason. 

But to confess a truth, I do not find they have greater 
aversion to fine clothes than the women of any other 
country whatsoever. I cannot fancy that a shopkeeper's 
wife in Cheapside has a greater tenderness for the for- 
tune of her husband, than a citizen's wife in Paris ; or 
that miss in a boarding-school is more an economist in 
dress than mademoiselle in a nunnery. 

Although Paris may be accounted the soil in which 
almost every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never 
so general there as with us. They study there the happy 
method of uniting grace and fashion, and never excuse a 
woman for being awkwardly dressed, by saying her clothes 
are in the mode. CA French woman is a perfect architect 
in dress ;/ she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes the 
orders ; she never tricks out a squabby Doric shape with 
Corinthian finery ; or, to speak without metaphor, she 
conforms to general fashion only when it happens not to 
be repugnant to private beauty. 

The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no 
other standard of grace but the run of the, town. If fash- 
ion gives the word, every distinction of beauty, complex- 
ion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prussian bonnets, 
and trollopees, as like each other as if cut from the same 
piece, level all to one standard. The Mall, the gardens, 
and playhouses, are filled Avith ladies in uniform ; and 
their whole appearance shows as little variety of taste as 
if their clothes were bespoke by the colonel of a marching 
regiment, or fancied by the artist who dresses the three 
battalions of guards. 



ESSAYS. 445 

But not only the ladies of every shape and complex- 
ion, but of every age, too, are possessed of this unaccount- 
able passion for levelling all distinction in dress. The 
lady of no quality travels first behind the lady of some 
quality ; and a woman of sixty is as gaudy as her grand- 
daughter. A friend of mine, a good-natured old man, 
amused me the other day with an account of his journey 
to the Mall. It seems, in his walk thither, he, for some 
time, followed a lady, who, as he thought, by her dress, was 
a girl of fifteen. It was airy, elegant, and youthful. My 
old friend had called up all his poetry on this occasion, 
and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution in every 
folding of her white negligee. He had prepared his im- 
agination for an angel's face ; but what was his mortifica- 
tion to find that the imaginary goddess was no other than 
his cousin Hannah, some years older than himself. 

But to give it in his own words : " After the transports 
of our first salute," said he, " were over, I could not avoid 
running my eye over her whole appearance. Her gown 
was of cambric, cut short before, in order to discover a 
high-heeled shoe, which was buckled almost at the toe. 
Her cap consisted of a few bits of cambric, and flowers 
of painted paper stuck on one side of her head. Her 
bosom, that had felt no hand but the hand of time these 
twenty years, rose, suing to be pressed. I could, indeed, 
have wished her more than a handkerchief of Paris net 
to shade her beauties ; for, as Tasso says of the rose-bud, 
' Quanto si nostra men, tanto e piu bella." A female 
breast is generally thought the most beautiful as it is more 
sparingly discovered. 



446 ESSAYS. 

As my cousin had not put on all this finery for nothing, 
she was at that time sallying out to the Park, where I had 
overtaken her. Perceiving, however, that I had on my 
best wig, she offered, if I would squire her there, to send 
home the footman. Though I trembled for our reception 
in public, yet I could not, with any civility, refuse ; so, to 
be as gallant as possible, I took her hand in my arm, and 
thus we marched on together. 

When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquated 
figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted the eyes of 
the company. As we made our way among crowds who 
were out to show their finery as well as we, wherever we 
came, I perceived w r e brought good-humor with us. The 
polite could not forbear smiling, and the vulgar burst out 
into a horse-laugh, at our grotesque figures. Cousin 
Hannah, who was perfectly conscious of the rectitude of 
her own appearance, attributed all this mirth to the oddity 
of mine ; while I as cordially placed the whole to her 
account. Thus, from being two of the best natured crea- 
tures alive, before we got halfway up the Mall, we both 
began to grow peevish, and, like two mice on a string, en- 
deavored to revenge the impertinence of others upon our- 
selves. ' I am amazed, cousin Jeffery," says miss, " that 
I can never get you to dress like a Christian. I knew 
we should have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your 
great wig so frizzled, and yet so beggarly, and your mon- 
strous muff. I hate those odious muffs/ I could have 
patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my equipage ; 
but as I had always a peculiar veneration for my muff, I 
could not forbear being piqued a little ; and, throwing my 



ESSAYS. 447 

eyes with a spiteful air on her bosom, " I could heartily 
wish, madam," replied I, " that, for your sake, my muff 
was cut into a tippet." 

As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily asham- 
ed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was never \erj fond 
of any kind of exhibition myself, it was mutually agreed 
to retire for a while to one of the seats, and, from that 
retreat, remark on others as freely as they had remarked 
on us. 

When seated, we continued silent for some time, em- 
ployed in very different speculations. I regarded the 
whole company, now passing in review before me, as 
drawn out merely for my amusement. For my entertain- 
ment the beauty had, all that morning been improving 
her charms : the beau had put on lace, and the young 
doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But quite differ- 
ent were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : she regarded 
every well-dressed woman as a victorious rival; hated 
every face that seemed dressed in good-humor, or wore 
the appearance of greater happiness than her own. I 
perceived her uneasiness, and attempted to lessen it, by 
observing that there was no company in the Park to-day. 
To this she readily assented ; " And yet," says she, " it is 
full enough of scrubs of one kind or another." My 
smiling at this observation gave her spirits to pursue the 
bent of her inclination, and now she began to exhibit her 
skill in secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. 
" Observe " says she to me, " that old woman in tawdry 
silk, and dressed out beyond the fashion. That is Miss 
Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money ; 
and as she considers that money was never so scarce as 



448 ESSAYS. 

it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has to her- 
self. She is ugly enough, you see ; yet, I assure you, she 
has refused several offers, to my knowledge, within this 
twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentlemen from Ireland, 
who study the law, two waiting captains, her doctor, and a 
Scotch preacher who had liked to have carried her off. 
All her time is passed between sickness and finery. Thus 
she spends the whole week in a close chamber, with no 
other company but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; 
and comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, to 
show her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new cold, and 
to make new work for the doctor. 

" ' There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat lady 
in the lustring trollopee. Between you and I, she is but 
a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, as fine as hands 
and pins can make her, while her two marriageble daugh- 
ters, like bunters in stuff gown*, are now taking six- 
penny-worth of tea at the White-conduit house. Odious 
puss, how she waddles along, with her train two yards be- 
hind her ! She puts me in mind of my lord Bantam's 
Indian sheep, which are obliged to have their monstrous 
tails trundled along in a go-cart. For all her airs, it goes 
to her husband's heart to see four yards of good lustring 
wearing against the ground, like one of his knives on a 
grindstone. To speak my mind, cousin Jeffery, I never 
liked those tails ; for suppose a young fellow should be 
rude, and the lady should offer to step back in the fright, 
instead of retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls 
fairly on her back; and then you know, cousin, — her 
clothes may be spoiled. 

"<Ah! Miss Mazzard! I knew we should not miss 



449 



her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. 
Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner ; and might 
have had some custom if she had minded her business ; 
but the girl was fond of finery, and, instead of dressing 
her customers, laid out all her goods in adorning herself, 
every new gown she put on impaired her credit ; she still, 
however, went on, improving her appearance and lessen- 
ing her little fortune, and is now, you see, become a belle 
and a bankrupt.' 

"My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she 
had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her 
at a distance, and approached to salute her. I found by 
the warmth of the two ladies' protestations, that they had 
been long intimate, esteemed friends and acquaintance. 
Both were so pleased at this happy rencounter, that they 
were resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed 
the Park together, and I saw them into a hackney-coach 
at St. James's." 



ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: 

OR THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL GOVERN- 
MENT OF THE WORLD. 

Wheee Tauris lifts his head above the storm, and 
presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller but 
a prospect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the 
variety of tremendous nature ; on the bleak bosom of 
this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and detest- 
ing the ways of men, lived Asem, the man-hater. 
38* 



450 



Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in 
their amusements ; and had been taught to love his fel- 
low-creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, from 
the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his for- 
tune in relieving the wants of the distressed. The pe- 
titioner never sued in vain ; the weary traveller never 
passed his door ; he only desisted from doing good when 
he had no longer the power of relieving. 

From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he expected 
a grateful return from those he had formerly relieved ; 
and made his application with confidence of redress : the 
ungrateful world soon grew weary of his importunity ; for 
pity is but a short-lived passion. He soon, therefore, 
began to view mankind in a very different light from that 
in which he had before beheld them: he perceived a 
thousand vices he had never before suspected to exist : 
wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treach- 
ery, contributed to increase his detestation of them. He- 
solved, therefore, to continue no longer in a world which 
he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, 
he retired to this region of sterility, in order to brood over 
his resentment in solitude, and converse with the only 
honest heart he knew ; namely, his own. 

A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of 
the weather ; fruits, gathered with difficulty from the 
mountain's side, his only food ; and his drink was fetched 
with danger and toil from the headlong torrent. In this 
manner he lived, sequestered from society, passing the 
hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting that that he 
was able to live independently of his fellow-creatures. 

At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake dis- 



451 



played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface 
the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capacious 
mirror he would sometimes descend, and, reclining on 
its steep banks, cast an eager look on the smooth expanse 
that lay before him. " How beautiful," he often cried, 
" is nature ! how lovely, even in her wildest scenes ! 
How finely contrasted is the level plain that lies beneath 
me, with yon awful pile that hides its tremendous head in 
clouds ! But the beauty of these scenes is no way com- 
parable with their utility ; from hence a hundred rivers 
are supplied, which distribute health and verdure to the 
various countries through which they flow. Every part of 
the universe is beautiful, just, and wise, but man : vile man 
is a solecism in nature, the only monster in the creation. 
Tempests and whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious, un- 
grateful man is a blot in the fair page of universal beau- 
ty. Why was I born of that detested species, whose vices 
are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the Divine Crea- 
tor ? Were men entirely free from vice, all would be 
uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral recti- 
tude should be the result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, 
why, then, Alia ! must I be thus confined in darkness, 
doubt, and despair ? " 

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to 
plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy his 
doubts, and put a period to his anxiety; when he per- 
ceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of 
the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood. 
So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose; he 
stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw something aw- 
ful and divine in his aspect. 



452 ESSAYS. 

" Son of Adam," cried the genius, " stop thy rash pur- 
pose ; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy justice, thy 
integrity, thy miseries ; and hath sent me to afford and 
administer relief. Give me thine hand, and follow with- 
out trembling, wherever I shall lead ; in me behold the 
genius of conviction, kept by the great prophet, to turn 
from their errors those who go astray, not from curi- 
osity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be 
wise." 

Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his 
guide conducted him along the surface of the water ; till, 
coming near the centre of the lake, they both began to 
sink ; the waters closed over their heads ; they descended 
several hundred fathoms, till Asem, just ready to give up 
his life as inevitably lost, found himself with his celestial 
guide in another world, at the bottom of the waters, 
where human foot had never trod before. His astonish- 
ment was beyond description, when he saw a sun like 
that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and blooming 
verdure under his feet. 

" I plainly perceive your amazement," said the genius ; 
" but suspend it for a while. This world was formed by 
Alia, at the request, and under the inspection of our 
great prophet ; who once entertained the same doubts 
which filled your mind when I found you, and from the 
consequence of which you were so lately rescued. The 
rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to 
your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. In other 
respects it resembles your earth; but differs from it in 
being wholly inhabited by men who never do wrong. If 
you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately 



453 



left, you have free permission to spend the remainder of 
your days in it ; but permit me for some time, to attend 
you, that I may silence your doubts, and make you better 
acquainted with your company and your new habitation." 

" A world without vice ! Rational beings without im- 
morality ! " cried Asem, in a rapture ; " I thank thee, O 
Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : this, this in- 
deed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. O for an 
immortality, to spend it among men who are incapable of 
ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other 
crimes that render society miserable ! " 

" Cease thine acclamations," replied the genius. " Look 
around thee ; reflect on every object and action before us, 
and communicate to me the result of thine observations. 
Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your at- 
tendant and instructor." Asem and his companion trav- 
elled on in silence for some time; the former being 
entirely lost in astonishment ; but, at last, recovering his 
former serenity, he could not help observing that the face 
of the country bore a near resemblance to that he had 
left, except that this subterranean world still seemed to 
retain its- primeval wildness. 

" Here," cried Asem, " I perceive animals of prey, and 
others that seem only designed for their subsistence ; it 
is the very same in the world over our heads. But had I 
been permitted to instruct our prophet, I would have re- 
moved this defect, and formed no voracious or destructive 
animals, which only prey on the other parts of the crea- 
tion." — " Your tenderness for inferior animals, is, I find, 
remarkable," said the genius, smiling. " But, with regard 
to meaner creatures, this world exactly resembles the 



454 ESSAYS. 

other; and, indeed, for obvious reasons: for the earth can 
support a more considerable number of animals, by their 
thus becoming food for each other, than if they had lived 
entirely on her vegetable productions. So that animals 
of different natures thus formed, instead of lessening their 
multitudes, subsist in the greatest number possible. But 
let us hasten on to the inhabited country before us, and 
see what that offers for instruction." 

They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and 
entered the country inhabited by men without vice ; and 
Asem anticipated in idea the rational delight he hoped to 
experience in such an innocent society. But they had 
scarce left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one 
of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, and terror in 
his countenance, from an army of squirrels that closely 
pursued him. " Heavens ! " cried Asem, " why does he 
fly? What can he fear from animals so contemptible ?" 
He had scarce spoken, when he perceived two dogs pur- 
suing another of the human species, who, with equal 
terror and haste, attempted to avoid them. " This," cried 
Asem to his guide, " is truly surprising ; nor can I con- 
ceive the reason for so strange an action." " Every 
species of animals," replied the genius, " has of late grown 
very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants, at first, 
thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying 
them, they have insensibly increased, and now frequently 
ravage their harmless frontiers." " But they should have 
been destroyed," cried Asem ; " you see the consequence 
of such neglect." "Where is then that tenderness you 
so lately expressed for subordinate animals ?" replied the 
genius, smiling : " you seem to have forgot that branch of 



455 



justice." " I must acknowledge my mistake," returned 
Asem ; " I am now convinced that we must be guilty of 
tyranny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would 
enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe 
the duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey 
their connections with one another." 

As they walked farther up the country, the more he 
was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no 
cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor, 
perceiving his surprise, observed that the inhabitants of 
this new world were perfectly content with their ancient 
simplicity ; each had a house, which, though homely, was 
sufficient to lodge his little family ; they were too good to 
build houses which could only increase their own pride, 
and the envy of the spectator ; what they built was for 
convenience, and not for show. "At least, then," said 
Asem, " they have neither architects, painters, nor statu- 
aries, in their society ; but these are idle arts, and may be 
spared. However, before I spend much more time here, 
you shall have my thanks for introducing me into the 
society of some of their wisest men : there is scarce 
any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation; 
there is nothing of which 1 am so much enamoured as 
wisdom." " Wisdom !" replied his instructor : " how ridic- 
ulous ! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occa- 
sion for it ; true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own 
duty, and the duty of others to us ; but of what use is 
such wisdom here ? Each intuitively performs what is 
right in himself, and expects the same from others. If 
by wisdom you should mean vain curiosity, and empty 
speculation, as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, 



456 



luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them." 
'"■ All this may be right," says Asem ; " but, methinks I 
observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people ; 
each family keeps separately within their own precincts, 
without society, or without intercourse." " That, indeed, 
is true," replied the other ; " here is no established society, 
nor should there be any : all societies are made either 
through fear or friendship ; the people we are among are 
too good to fear each other ; and there are no motives to 
private friendship, where all are equally meritorious." 
" Well, then," said the sceptic," as I am to spend my time 
here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, 
nor friendship, in such a world, I should be glad, at least, 
of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and 
to whom I may communicate mine." " And to what pur- 
pose should either do this ? " says the genius : " flattery 
or curiosity are vicious motives, and never allowed of 
here ; and wisdom is out of the question. 

Still, however," said Asem, " the inhabitants must be 
happy ; each is contented with his own possessions, nor 
avariciously endeavors to heap up more than is necessary 
for his own subsistence ; each has therefore leisure for 
pitying those that stand in need of his compassion." He 
had scarce spoken when his ears were assaulted with the 
lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side, and, 
in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently to murmur 
at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to his re- 
lief, and found him in the last stage of a consumption. 
" Strange," cried the son of Adam, " that men who are 
free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without 
relief!" "Be not surprised," said the wretch, who was 



ESSAYS. 457 

dying ; " would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, 
who have only just sufficient to support themselves, and 
are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from their 
own mouths to put it into mine ? They never are posses- 
sed of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is 
barely necessary cannot be dispensed with." " They 
should have been supplied with more than is necessary," 
cried Asem ; " and yet I contradict my own opinion but 
a moment before : all is doubt, perplexity, and confusion. 
Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, since they 
never receive a favor. They have, however, another ex- 
cellence yet behind ; the love of their country is still, I 
hope, one of their darling virtues." " Peace, Asem," re- 
plied the guardian, with a countenance not less severe 
than beautiful, " nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom ; 
the same selfish motives by which we prefer our own in- 
terest to that of others, induce us to regard our country 
preferable to that of another. Nothing less than univer- 
sal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is prac- 
tised here." " Strange," cries the disappointed pilgrim, 
in an agony of distress ; " what sort of a world am I now 
introduced to? There 'is scarce a single virtue, but that 
of temperance, which they practise ; and in that they are 
no way superior to the brute creation. There is scarce 
an amusement which they enjoy; fortitude, liberality, 
friendship, wisdom, conversation, and love of country, are 
all virtues entirely unknown here ; thus it seems, that to 
be unacquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take 
me, O my genius, back to that very world which I have 
despised ; a world which has Alia for its contriver, is 
much more wisely formed than that which has been pro- 
39 



458 



jected by Mohammed. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, 
I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved them. 
When I arraigned the wisdom of Providence, I only- 
showed my own ignorance ; henceforth let me keep from 
vice myself, and pity it in others." 

He had scarce ended, when the genius, assuming an air 
of terrible complacency, called all his thunders around 
him, and vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, astonished at 
the terror of the scene, looked for his imaginary world ; 
when, casting his eyes around, he perceived himself in the 
very situation, and in the very place, where he first be- 
gan to repine and despair ; his right foot had been just 
advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet 
withdrawn ; so instantly did Providence strike the series 
of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now departed 
from the water-side in tranquillity, and, leaving his horrid 
mansion, travelled to Segestan, his native city ; where he 
diligently applied himself to commerce, and put in prac- 
tice that wisdom he had learned in solitude. The frugality 
of a few years soon produced opulence ; the number of 
his domestics increased; his friends came to him from 
every part of the city, nor did he receive them with dis- 
dain ; and a youth of misery was concluded with an 
old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. 



ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND POPULAR 
PREACHERS. 

It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines re- 
ceive a more liberal education, and improve that education 



459 



by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend 
profession in Europe. In general, also, it may be observ- 
ed, that a greater degree of gentility is affixed to the 
character of a student in England than elsewhere ; by 
which means our clergy have an opportunity of seeing 
better company while young, and of sooner wearing off 
those prejudices which they are apt to imbibe even in the 
best-regulated universities, and which may be justly term- 
ed the vulgar errors of the wise. 

Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious, that 
the clergy are no where so little thought of, by the popu- 
lace, as here ; and, though our divines are foremost with 
respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the effects 
of their ministry ; the vulgar, in general, appearing no 
way impressed with a sense of religious duty. I am not 
for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeav- 
oring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature ; 
but certain it is, no person who has travelled will contra- 
dict me, when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind, 
in other countries, testify, on every occasion, the profound- 
est awe of religion ; while in England they are scarcely 
awakened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstan- 
ces of the greatest distress. 

This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt 
to attribute to climate, and constitution ; may not the vul- 
gar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from 
the pulpit, be a conspiring cause? Our divines seldom 
stoop to their mean capacities ; and they who want in- 
struction most, find least in our religious assemblies. 

Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
kind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives 



460 ESSAYS. 

to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, 
whose behavior in civil life is totally hinged upon their 
hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of the 
great fabric of society, should be particularly regarded ; 
for, in policy, as architecture, ruin is most fatal when 
it begins from the bottom. 

Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prudent 
mediocrity to a precarious popularity, and, fearing to out- 
do their duty, leave it half done. Their discourses from 
the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and unaifecting : 
delivered with the most insipid calmness ; insomuch, that 
should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cush- 
ion, which alone he seems to address, he might discover 
his audience, instead of being awakened to remorse, ac- 
tually sleeping over his methodical and labored com- 
position. 

This method of preaching is, however, by some called 
an address to reason, and not to the passions; this is 
styled the making of converts from conviction ; but such 
are indifferently acquainted with human nature, who are 
not sensible that men seldom reason about their debauch- 
eries till they are committed. Reason is but a weak an- 
tagonist when headlong passion dictates; in all such cases 
we should arm one passion against another : it is with the 
human mind as in nature ; from the mixture .of two op- 
posites, the result is most frequently neutral tranquillity. 
Those who attempt to reason us out of follies, begin at the 
wrong end, since the attempt naturally presupposes us 
capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this, is one 
great point of the cure. 

There are but few talents requisite to become a popu- 



ESSAYS. 461 

lar preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they 
perceive any endeavors in the orator to please them ; the 
meanest qualifications will work this effect, if the preacher 
sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed very little 
more is required, than sincerity and assurance ; and a be- 
coming sincerity is always certain of producing a becom- 
ing assurance. " Si vis me flere, dolendum est primum 
tibi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost demands 
an apology to repeat it ; yet though all allow the justice 
of the remark, how few do we find put it in practice ! Our 
orators, with the most faulty bashfulness, seem impressed 
rather with an awe of their audience, than with a just re- 
spect for the truths they are about to deliver : they, of 
all professions, seem the most bashful, who have the 
greatest right to glory in their commission. 

The French preachers generally assume all that dig- 
nity which becomes men who are ambassadors from 
Christ ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, seem 
more solicitous not to offend the court to which they are 
sent, than to drive home the interests of their employer. 
The bishop of Massillon, in the first sermon he ever 
preached, found the whole audience, upon his getting 
into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favorable to his 
intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy behavior, 
showed him that there was no great profit to be expected 
from his sowing in a soil so improper ; however, he soon 
'Changed the disposition of his audience by his manner of 
beginning. " If," says he, " a cause the most important 
that could be conceived, were to be tried at the bar before 
qualified judges ; if this cause interested ourselves in par- 
ticular ; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed 
39* 



462 ESSAYS. 

upon the event; if the most eminent counsel were em- 
ployed on both sides ; and if we hud heard from our in- 
fancy of this yet-undetermined trial, — would you not all 
sit with due attention, and warm expectation, to the plead- 
ings on each side ? Would not all your hopes and fears 
be hinged on the final decision ? and yet, let me tell you, 
have this moment a cause of much greater importance 
before you ; a cause where not one nation, but all the 
world, are spectators ; tried not before a fallible tribunal, 
but the awful throne of Heaven ; where not your tem- 
poral and transitory interests are the subject of debate, 
but your eternal happiness or misery ; where the cause 
is still undetermined, but, perhaps, the very moment I am 
speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last 
forever : and yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly 
sit with patience to hear the tidings of your own salva- 
tion ; I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely 
attended to," etc. 

The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in 
the closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit it is at- 
tended with the most lasting impressions : that style 
which, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, seems 
the true mode of eloquence here. I never read a fine 
composition under the title of a sermon, that I do not 
think the author has miscalled his piece ; for the talents 
to be used in writing well entirely differ from those of 
speaking well. The qualifications for speaking, as has 
been already observed, are easily acquired ; they are ac- 
complishments which may be taken up by every candi- 
date who will be at the pains of stooping. Impressed 
with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preach- 



463 



er disregards the applause or the contempt of his audi- 
ence, and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincer- 
ity. With this talent alone we see what crowds are 
drawn around enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense ; 
what numbers converted to Christianity. Folly may 
sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ; and our 
regular divines may borrow instruction from even Metho- 
dists, who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the 
populace. Even Whitefield may be placed as a model to 
some of our young divines ; let them join to their own 
good sense his earnest manner of delivery. 

It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excel- 
lences of a preacher to proper assurance, earnestness, and 
openness of style, I make the qualifications too trifling for 
estimation ; there will be something called oratory brought 
up on this occasion ; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may 
be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the char- 
acter ; but let us not be deceived ; common sense is seldom 
swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or 
the display of a white handkerchief; oratorial behavior, 
except in very able hands indeed, generally sinks into 
awkward and paltry affectation. 

It must be observed, however, that these rules are cal- 
culated only for him who would instruct the vulgar, who 
stand in most need of instruction ; to address philosophers, 
and to obtain the character of a polite preacher among 
the polite — a much more useless, though more sought- 
for character — requires a different method of proceeding. 
All I shall observe on this head is, to entreat the polemic 
divine, in his controversy with the deist, to act rather 
offensively than to defend ; to push home the grounds of 



4G-J: ESSAYS. 

his belief, and the impracticability of theirs, rather than 
to spend time in solving the objections of every opponent. 
" It is ten to one," says a late writer on the art of war, 
"but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his 
trenches is always victorious." 

Yet upon the whole, our clergy might employ them- 
selves more to the benefit of society, by declining all 
controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest skill 
in polemic disputes ; their contests with each other often 
turn on speculative trifles ; and their disputes with the 
deist are almost at an end, since they can have no more 
than victory ; and that they are already possessed of, as 
their antagonists have been driven into a confession of 
the necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of atheism. 
To continue the dispute longer would only endanger it ; 
the sceptic is ever expert at puzzling a debate which he 
finds himself unable to continue, " and, like an Olympic 
boxer, generally fights best when undermost." 



ON THE 

ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM SENDING A 

JUDICIOUS TRAVELLER INTO ASIA. 

I have frequently been amazed at the ignorance of 
almost all the European travellers, who have penetrated 
any considerable way eastward into Asia. They have all 
been influenced either by motives of commerce or piety, 
and their accounts are such as might reasonably be ex- 
pected from men of a very narrow or very prejudiced 
education — the dictates of superstition, or the result of 



465 



ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of such a variety of 
adventurers, not one single philosopher should be found 
among the number ? For, as to the travels of Gemelli, 
the learned are long agreed that the whole is but an im- 
posture. 

There is scarce any country, how rude or uncultivated 
soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed of some 
peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which might be 
transplanted with success ; thus, for instance, in Siberian 
Tartary, the natives extract a strong spirit from milk, 
which is a secret probably unknown to the chemists in 
Europe. In the most savage parts of India they are 
possessed of the secret of dying vegetable substances 
scarlet, and likewise that of refining lead into a metal, 
which, for hardness and color, is little inferior to silver ; 
not one of which secrets but would, in Europe, make a 
man's fortune. The power of the Asiatics in producing 
winds, or bringing down rain, the Europeans are apt to 
treat as fabulous, because they have no instances of the 
like nature among themselves: but they would have 
treated the secrets of gunpowder, and the mariner's com- 
pass, in the same manner, had they been told the Chinese 
used such arts before the invention was common with 
themselves at home. 

Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence 
Bacon, that great and hardy genius ; he it is, who, undaunt- 
ed by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human 
curiosity to examine every part of nature ; and even ex- 
horts man to try whether he cannot subject the tempest, 
the thunder, and even earthquakes, to human control. 
Oh ! had a man of his daring spirit, of his genius, pene- 



ACQ essays: 

tration, and learning, travelled to those countries which 
have been visited only by the superstitious and mercena- 
ry, what might not mankind expect ! How would he 
enlighten the regions to which he travelled ! and what a 
variety of knowledge and useful improvement would he 
not bring back in exchange ! 

There is probably no country so barbarous, that would 
not disclose all it knew, if it received equivalent informa- 
tion ; and I am apt to think, that a person who was ready 
to give more knowledge than he received, would be wel- 
come wherever he came. All his care in travelling should 
only be, to suit his intellectual banquet to the people with 
whom he conversed ; he should not attempt to teach the 
unlettered Tartar astronomy, nor yet instruct the polite 
Chinese in the arts of subsistence ; he should endeavor 
to improve the barbarian in the secrets of living comfort- 
ably ; and the inhabitants of a more refined country, in 
the speculative pleasures of science. How much more 
nobly would a philosopher, thus employed, spend his time, 
than by sitting at home, earnestly intent upon adding one 
star more to his catalogue, or one monster more to his 
collection ; or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous, in 
the incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of cherry-stones. 

I never consider this subject without being surprised 
that none of those societies so laudably established in 
England for the promotion of arts and learning, have ever 
thought of sending one of their members into the most 
eastern parts of Asia, to make what discoveries he was 
able. To be convinced of the utility of such an under- 
taking, let them but read the relations of their own trav- 
ellers. It will there be found, that they are as often 



ESSAYS. 467 

deceived themselves as they attempt to deceive others. 
The merchants tell us, perhaps, the price of different 
commodities, the methods of baling them up, and the 
properest manner for a European to preserve his health 
in the country. The missionary, on the other hand, in- 
forms us with what pleasure the country to which he was 
sent embraced Christianity, and the numbers he convert- 
ed ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where 
there were no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate the 
rites of his religion, in places where there was neither 
bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual appendage 
of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, rivers, and moun- 
tains, make up the whole of a European traveller's diary : 
but as to all the secrets of which the inhabitants are 
possessed, those are universally attributed to magic ; and 
when the traveller can give no other account of the won- 
ders he sees performed, he very contentedly ascribes them 
to the devil 

It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English chem- 
ist, that, if every artist would but discover what new 
observations occurred to him in the exercise of his trade, 
philosophy would thence gain innumerable improvements. 
It may be observed with still greater justice, that, if the 
useful knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, 
was gleaned by a judicious observer, the advantages would 
be inestimable. Are there not, even in Europe, many 
useful inventions known or practised but in one place ? 
Their instrument, as an example, for cutting down corn 
in Germany, is much more handy and expeditious, in my 
opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap and 
expeditious manner of making- vinegar, without previous 



468 ESSAYS. 

fermentation, is known only in a part of France. If such 
discoveries therefore remain still to be known at home, 
what funds of knowledge might not be collected in 
countries yet unexplored, or only passed through by igno- 
rant travellers in hasty caravans. 

The caution with which foreigners are received in Asia, 
may be alleged as an objection to such a design. But 
how readily have several European merchants found ad- 
mission into regions the most suspicious, under the char- 
acter of sanjapins, or northern pilgrims ? To such not 
even China itself denies access. 

To send out a traveller properly qualified for these 
purposes, might be an object of national concern ; it would, 
in some measure, repair the breaches made by ambition ; 
and might show that there were still some who boasted a 
greater name than that of patriots, who professed them- 
selves lovers of men. 

The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper 
person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a 
man of philosophical turn ; one apt to deduce consequen- 
ces of general utility from particular occurrences ; neither 
swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; neither 
wedded to one particular system, nor instructed only in 
one particular science ; neither wholly a botanist, nor 
quite an antiquarian, his mind should be tinctured with 
miscellaneous knowledge; and his manners humanized 
by an intercourse with men. He should be, in some 
measure, an enthusiast to the design : fond of travelling, 
from a rapid imagination, and an innate love of change : 
furnished with a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, 
and a heart not easily terrified at danger. 



469 



A KEVERIE AT THE BOAR'S-HEAD TAVERN, IN 
EASTCHEAP. 

The improvements we make in mental acquirements 
only render us each day more sensible of the defects of 
our constitution : with this in view, therefore, let us often 
recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavor to forget age 
and wisdom, and, as far as innocence goes, be as much a 
. boy as the best of them. 

Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of the 
age, but, in my opinion, every age is the same. This I 
am sure of, that man, in every season, is a poor, fretful 
being, with no other means to escape the calamities of 
the times, but by endeavoring to forget them ; for, if he 
attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel pov- 
erty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel with the 
executioner, even while under correction ; I find myself 
no way disposed to make fine speeches, while I am mak- 
ing wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the fit is 
on, to make me insensible ; and drink when it is over, for 
joy that I feel pain no longer. 

The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, 
gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts 
of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forget- % 
ting age, and showing me the way to be young at sixty- j 
five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so 
comical, as he. Is it not in my power to have, though \ 
not so much wit, at least as much vivacity ? Age, care, 
wisdom, reflection, begone ! — I give you to the winds. 
Let 's have t' other bottle : here 's to the memory of 
Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of East- 
cheap. 

40 



«i70 ESSAYS. 

Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I 
sat at the Boar's-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. 
Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old 
Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was 
sometimes honored by Prince Henry, and sometimes pol- 
luted by his immoral, merry companions, I sat and rumi- 
nated on the follies of youth ; wished to be young again ; 
but was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted,, 
and now and then compared past and present times to- 
gether. I considered myself as the only living repre- 
sentative of the old knight j and transported my imagina- 
tion back to the times when the prince and he gave life 
to the revel, and made even debauchery not disgusting. 
The room also conspired to throw my reflection back into 
antiquity : the oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the 
ponderous chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth 
of time : the watchmen had gone twelve : my companions 
had all stolen off, and none now remained with me but 
the landlord. From him 1 could have wished to know 
the history of a tavern that had such a long succession 
of customers .; I could not help thinking that an account 
of this kind would be a pleasing contrast of the manners 
of different ages ; but my landlord could give me no in- 
formation. He continued to doze, and sat, and tell a 
tedious story, as most other landlords usually do ; and, 
though he said nothing, yet was never silent ; one good 
joke followed another good joke, and the best joke of all 
was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I 
found at last, however, his wine and his conversation 
operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his ap- 
pearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his 



471 



breeches swelled into a fardingale. I now fancied him 
changing sexes ; and, as nay eyes began to close in slum- 
ber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted into 
as fat a landlady. However, sleep made but few changes 
in my situation : the tavern, the apartment, and the table, 
continued as before; nothing suffered mutation but my 
host, who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I 
knew to be Dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the 
days of Sir John; and the liquor we were drinking, which 
seemed converted into sack and sugar. 

" My dear Mrs. Quickly," cried I, (for I knew her 
perfectly well at first sight), " I am heartily glad to see 
you. How have you left FalstafF, Pistol, and the rest of 
our friends below stairs ? Brave and hearty, I hope ?" 
" In good sooth," replied she, " he did deserve to live for 
ever ; but he maketh foul work on't where he hath flitted. 
Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled, for his attempt- 
ing a rape upon her divinity ; and were it not that she 
still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems prob- 
able he might have now been sprawling in Tartarus." 

I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of the 
flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism and 
dreaming, ghosts have been known to be guilty of even 
more than Platonic affection : wherefore, as I found her 
too much moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolv- 
ed to change the subject ; and, desiring she would pledge 
me in a bumper, observed with a sigh, that our sack was 
nothing now to what it was in former days. " Ah, Mrs. 
Quickly, those were merry times when you drew sack for 
Prince Henry : men were twice as strong, and twice as 
wise, and much braver, and ten thousand times more 



472 ESSAYS. 

charitable, than now. Those were the times ! The battle 
of Agincourfc was a victory indeed ! Eyer since that, we 
have only been degenerating ; and I have lived to see 
the day when drinking is no longer fashionable. When 
men wear clean shirts, and women show their necks and 
arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly ; and we shall 
probably, in another century, be frittered away into beaux 
or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see what I have 
seen, it would congeal all the blood in your body (your 
soul, I mean). Why, our very nobility now have the in- 
tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remon- 
strated from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have the 
assurance to frequent assemblies, and presume to be as 
merry as the vulgar. See, my very friends have scarce 
manhood enough to sit till eleven ; and I only am left to 
make a night on't. Pr'ythee do me the favor to console 
me a little for their absence by the story of your own 
adventures, or the history of the tavern where we are 
now sitting. I fancy the narrative may have something 
singular." 

" Observe this apartment/' interrupted my companion, 
of neat device and excellent workmanship. In this room 
I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, more than three 
hundred years ; I am ordered by Pluto to keep an annual 
register of every transaction that passeth here : and I 
have whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons 
may be submitted to thy regards." "None of your 
whiloms nor eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you please," I re- 
plied ; k ' I know you can talk every whit as well as I can : 
for, as you have lived here so long, it is but natural to 
suppose you should learn the conversation of the company. 



473 



Believe me, dame, at best, you have neither too much 
sense, nor too much language, to spare ; so give me both 
as well as you can : but first, my service to you ; old 
women should water their clay a little now and then ; and 
now to your story." 

" The story of my own adventures," replied the vision, 
" is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, believe me, Mr. 
Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a butt of sack at 
her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John's death afflicted 
me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown 
sorrow, I drank more liquor myself than I drew for my 
customers : my grief was sincere, and the sack was ex- 
cellent. The prior of a neighboring convent (for our 
priors then had as much power as a Middlesex justice 
now), he, I say, it was who gave me license for keeping 
a disorderly house ; upon condition that I should never 
make hard bargains with the clergy : that he should have 
a bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of con- 
fessing which of my girls he thought proper in private 
every night. I had continued for several years to pay 
this tribute ; and he, it must be confessed, continued as 
rigorously to exact it. I grew old insensibly ; my cus- 
tomers continued, however, to compliment my looks while 
I was by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when 
my back was turned. The prior, however, still was con- 
stant, and so were half his convent ; but one fatal morning 
he missed the usual beverage, for I had incautiously drunk 
over-night the last bottle myself. What will you have 
on 't ? The very next day Doll Tearsheet and I were 
sent to the house of correction, and accused qf keeping a 
40* 



474 ESSAYS. 

low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well purified 
there with stripes, mortification and penance, that we were 
afterward utterly unfit for worldly conversation : though 
sack would have killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I soon 
died for want of a drop of something comfortable, and 
fairly left my body to the care of the beadle. 

" Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, where 
I have ever since been stationed, affords greater variety. 
In the history of this, which is one of the oldest in Lon- 
don, you may view the different manners, pleasures, and 
follies of men, at different periods. You will find man- 
kind neither better nor worse now than formerly ; the vices 
of an uncivilized people are generally more detestable, 
though not so frequent, as those in polite society. It is 
the same luxury which formerly stuffed your alderman 
with plum-porridge, and now crams him with turtle. It 
is the same low ambition that formerly induced a courtier 
to give up his religion to please his king, and now per- 
suades him to give up his conscience to please his minis- 
ter. It is the same vanity that formerly stained our 
ladies' cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them 
with carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered 
his hair with red earth, like brick-dust, in order to appear 
frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair on the crown, 
and plasters it with hogs'-lard and flour ; and this to make 
him look killing. It is the same vanity, the same folly, 
and the same vice, only appearing different, as viewed - 
through the glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind 
are a " 

" Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I — " None 



475 



of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love me ; they 
only give me the spleen. Tell me your history at once. 
I love stories, but hate reasoning." 

" If you please, then, sir," returned my companion, " I'll 
read you an abstract, which I made, of the three hundred 
volumes I mentioned just now : 

" My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the 
prior and several of his convent came to purify the tavern 
from the pollutions with which they said I had filled it. 
Masses were said in every room, relics were exposed 
upon every piece of furniture, and the whole house washed 
with a deluge of holy water. My habitation was soon 
converted into a monastery ; instead of customers now 
applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowded with 
images, relics, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of being 
a scene of occasional debauchery, it was now filled with 
continued lewdness. The prior led the fashion, and the 
whole convent imitated his pious example. Matrons 
came hither to confess their sins, and to commit new. 
Virgins came hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor 
was this a convent peculiarly wicked ; every convent at that 
period was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless 
loose to appetite. The laws allowed it ; each priest had a 
right to a favorite companion, and a power of discarding 
her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quar- 
relled with their wives and daughters, hated their 
confessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease. 
These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole : these were 
times of piety, bravery, and simplicity ! " — " Not so very 
happy, neither, good madam ; pretty much like the pie- 



476 ESSAYS. 

sent : those that labor, starve ; and those that do nothing, 
wear fine clothes and live in luxury." 

" In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, with- 
out molestation ; they transgressed, confessed themselves 
to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, however, 
our prior keeping a lady of distinction somewhat too long 
at confession, her husband unexpectedly came upon them, 
and testified all the indignation which was natural upon 
such an occasion. The prior assured the gentleman that 
it was the devil who had put it into his heart ; and the 
lady was very certain, that she was under the influence of 
magic, or she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a 
manner. The husband, however, was not to be put off 
by such evasions, but summoned both before the tribunal 
of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected 
large damages. Such, indeed, he had a right to expect, 
were the tribunals of those days constituted in the same 
manner as they are now. The cause of the priest was 
to be tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman 
was to expect redress only from their impartiality and 
candor. What plea then do you think the prior made to 
obviate this accusation ? He denied the fact, and chal- 
lenged the plaintiff to try the merits of their cause by 
single combat. It was a little hard, you may be sure, 
upon the poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, 
but to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet 
such was the justice of the times. The prior threw down 
his glove, and the injured husband was obliged to take it 
up, in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon this, 
the priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for 



ESSAYS. 477. 

the clergy to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, ac- 
cording to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to 
fast and pray, every method being previously used to 
induce both to a confession of the truth. After a month's 
imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, their bodies 
anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed, and 
guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over the 
whole in person. Both the champions were sworn not to 
seek victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed and 
confessed upon their knees ; and, after these ceremonies, 
the rest was left to the courage and conduct of the com- 
batants. As the champion whom the prior had pitched 
upon, had fought six or eight times upon similar occasions, 
it was no way extraordinary to find him victorious in thfe 
present combat. In short, the husband was discomfited ; 
he was taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, 
and, after one of his legs was cut off, as justice ordained 
in such cases, he was hanged as a terror to future offenders. 
These, these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ! you see how 
much more just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were 
than we." " I rather fancy, madam, that the times then 
were pretty much like our own ; where a multiplicity of 
laws give a judge as much power as a want of law ; since 
he is ever sure to find among the number some to coun- 
tenance his partiality/' 

" Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now gave 
a loose to every demonstration of joy. The lady became 
a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and three Wickliffites 
were burned in the illuminations and fireworks that were 
made on the present occasion. Our convent now began 
to enjoy a very high degree of reputation. There was not 



478 ESSAYS. 

one in London that had the character of hating heretics 
so much as ours. Ladies of the first distinction chose 
from our convent their confessors ; in short, it flourished, 
and might have flourished to this hour, but for a fatal 
accident, which, terminated in its overthrow. The lady 
whom the prior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he 
continued to visit for some time with great punctuality, 
began at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. 
Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now entertained 
the visions of a devotee; found herself strangely dis- 
turbed ; but hesitated in determining, whether she was 
possessed by an angel or a demon. She was not long in 
suspense : for, upon vomiting a large quantity of crooked 
pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, 
she quickly concluded that she was possessed by the devil. 
She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and when she 
seemed to speak, every body that was present perceived 
that her voice was not her own, but that of the devil 
within her. In short, she was bewitched ; and all the 
difficulty lay in determining who it could be that bewitched 
her. The nuns and the monks all demanded the ma- 
gician's name, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew 
they had no authority to ask questions. By the rules of 
witchcraft, when an evil spirit has taken possession, he 
may refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless 
they are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to 
reply. A bishop, therefore, was sent for, and now the 
whole secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that 
he was a servant of the prior ; that by his command he 
resided in his present habitation ; and that, without his 
command, he was resolved to keep in possession. The 



ESSAYS. 479 

bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove the devil out by 
force of mystical arms ; the prior was arraigned for witch- 
craft ; the witnesses were strong and numerous against 
him, not less than fourteen persons being by who heard 
the devil speak Latin. There was no resisting such a 
cloud of witnesses ; the prior was condemned ; and he 
who had assisted at so many burnings, was burned him- 
self in turn. These were times, Mr. Rigmarole ; the 
people of those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere 
believers ! " — " Equally faulty with ourselves, they be- 
lieved what the devil was pleased to tell them ; and we 
seem resolved, at last, to believe neither God nor devil.'" 
" After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to be 
supposed it could subsist any longer ; the fathers were 
ordered to decamp, and the house was once again con- 
verted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of 
his cast-off mistresses ; she was constituted landlady by 
royal authority ; and, as the tavern was in the neighbor- 
hood of the court, and the mistress a very polite woman, 
it began to have more business than ever, and sometimes 
took not less than four shillings a-day. 

" But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were 
the peculiar qualifications of women of fashion at that 
period ; and in a description of the present landlady, you 
will have a tolerable idea of all the rest. This lady was 
the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an educa- 
tion in the country as became her quality, beauty, and 
great expectations. She could make shifts and hose for 
herself and all the servants of the family, when she was 
twelve years old. She knew the names of the four-and- 
twenty letters, so that it was impossible to bewitch her ; 



480 ESSAYS. 

and this was a greater piece of learning than any lady in 
the whole country could pretend to. She was always up 
early, and saw breakfast served in the great hall by six 
o'clock. At this scene of festivity she generally improved 
good-humor, by telling her dreams, relating stories of 
spirits, several of which she herself had seen, and one of 
which she was reported to have killed with a black-hafted 
knife. From hence she usually went to make pastry in 
the larder, and here she was followed by her sweet-hearts, 
who were much helped on in conversation by struggling 
with her for kisses. About ten, miss generally went to 
play at hot-cockles and blindman's buff in the parlor ; 
and when the young folks (for they seldom played at hot- 
cockles when grown old) were tired of such amusements, 
the gentlemen entertained miss with the history of their 
greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cudgel-play- 
ing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the ring, or 
shot at butts, while miss held in her hand a riband, with 
which she adorned the conqueror. Her mental qualifica- 
tions were exactly fitted to her external accomplish- 
ments. Before she was fifteen she could tell the story 
of Jack the Giant Killer ; could name every mountain 
that was inhabited by fairies ; knew a witch at first sight ; 
and could repeat four Latin prayers without a prompter. 
Her dress was perfectly fashionable ; her arms and her 
hair were completely covered ; a monstrous muff was 
put round her neck, so that her head seemed like that of 
John the Baptist placed in a charger. In short, when 
completely equipped, her appearance was so very modest, 
that she discovered little more than her nose. These 
were the times, Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that had 



ESSAYS. 481 

a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every woman 
that could tell stories might be cried up for a wit." " I 
am as much displeased at those dresses which conceal too 
much, as at those which discover too much : I am equally 
an enemy to a female dunce, or a female pedant." 

" You may be sure that miss chose a husband with qual- 
ifications resembling her own; she pitched upon a courtier 
equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, who had 
given several proofs of his great virility among the 
daughters of his tenants and domestics. They fell in 
love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the times), 
were married, came to court, and madam appeared with 
superior qualifications. The king was struck with her 
beauty. All property was at the king's command ; the 
husband was obliged to resign all pretensions in his wife 
to the sovereign whom God anointed, to commit adultery 
where he thought proper. The king loved her for some 
time ; but, at length, repenting of his misdeeds, and insti- 
gated by his father confessor, from a principle of con- 
science, removed her from his levee to the bar of this 
tavern, and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not 
surprise you to behold the mistress of a king degraded to 
so humble an office. As the ladies had no mental accom- 
plishments, a good face was enough to raise them to the 
royal couch ; and she who was this day a royal mistress, 
might the next, when her beauty palled upon enjoyment, 
be doomed to infamy and want. 

" Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew into 

great reputation; the courtiers had not yet learned to 

game, but they paid it off by drinking ; drunkenness is 

ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a luxurious 

41 



482 



age. They had not such frequent entertainments as the 
moderns have, but were more expensive and more luxu- 
rious in those they had. All their fooleries were more 
elaborate, and more admired by the great and the vulgar, 
than now. A courtier has been known to spend his whole 
fortune at a single combat ; a king to mortgage his domin- 
ions to furnish out the frippery of a tournament. There 
were certain days appointed for riot and debauchery, and 
to be sober at such times was reputed a crime. Kings 
themselves set the example ; and I have seen monarchs 
in this room drunk before the entertainment was half 
concluded. These were the times, sir, when the kings 
kept mistresses, and got drunk in public ; they were too 
plain and simple in those happy times to hide their vices, 
and act the hypocrite as now." " Lord, Mrs. Quickly !" 
interrupting her, " I expected to hear a story, and here 
you are going to tell me I know not what of times and 
vices ; pr'ythee let me entreat thee once more to waive 
reflections, and give thy history without deviation." 

" No lady upon earth," continued my visionary corres- 
pondent, " knew how to put off her damaged wine or 
women with more art than she. When these grew flat, 
or those paltry, it was but changing their names ; the 
wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. She was 
also possessed of the engaging leer, the chuck under the 
chin, winked at a double entendre, could nick the oppor- 
tunity of calling for something comfortable, and perfectly 
understood the distinct moments when to withdraw. The 
gallants of those times pretty much resembled the bloods 
of ours ; they were fond of pleasure, but quite ignorant 
of the art of refining upon it : thus a court-bawd of those 



483 



times resembled the common, low-lived harridan of a 
modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery ! how 
often have I been present at the various appearances of 
drunkenness, riot, guilt, and brutality. A tavern is a true 
picture of human infirmity ; in history we find only one 
side of the age exhibited to our view ; but in the accounts 
of a tavern we see every age equally absurd and equally 
vicious. 

Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was successively 
occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and gamesters. 
Towards the conclusion of the reign of Henry VII. gam- 
ing was more universally practised in England than even 
now. Kings themselves have been known to play off, 
at primero, not only all the money and jewels they could 
part with, but the very images in churches. The last 
Henry played away, in this very room, not only the four 
great bells of St. Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of 
St. Paul, which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir 
Miles Partridge, who took them down the next day, and 
sold them by auction. Have you then any cause to re- 
gret being born in the times you now live in, or do you 
still believe that human nature continues to run on de- 
clining every age ? If we observe the actions of the 
busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found infi- 
nitely more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than you. 
If, forsaking history, we only trace them in their hours of 
amusement and dissipation, we shall find them more sen- 
sual, more entirely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely 
more selfish. 

" The last hostess of note I find upon record was Jane 
Eouse. She was born among the lower ranks of the 



484 ESSAYS. 

people ; and by frugality and extreme complaisance, con- 
trived to acquire a moderate fortune : this she might have 
enjoyed for many years, had she not unfortunately quar- 
relled with one of her neighbors, a woman who was in 
high repute for sanctity through the whole parish. In 
the times of which I speak, two women seldom quarrelled 
that one did not accuse the other of witchcraft, and she 
who first contrived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come 
off victorious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs 
widely from the scandal of former times ; the fascination 
of a lady's eyes, at present, is regarded as a compliment ; 
but if a lady formerly should be accused of having witch- 
craft in her eyes, it were much better, both for her soul 
and body, that she had no eyes at all. 

" In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft, and 
though she made the best defence she could, it was all to 
no purpose ; she was taken from her own bar to the bar 
of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed accordingly. 
These were times, indeed ! when even women could not 
scold in safety. 

" Since her time the tavern underwent several revolu- 
tions, according to the spirit of the times, or the disposi- 
tion of the reigning monarch. It was this day a brothel, 
and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. It was one 
year noted for harboring whigs, and the next infamous 
for a retreat to tories. Some years ago it was in high 
vogue, but at present it seems declining. This only may 
be remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish 
most, the times are then most extravagant and luxurious." 
" Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " interrupted I, " you have really 
deceived me ; I expected a romance, and here you have 



ESSAYS. 485 

been this half-hour giving me only a description of the 
spirit of the times ; if you have nothing but tedious re- 
marks to communicate, seek some other hearer ; I am 
determined to hearken only to stories." 

I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and ears seemed 
opened to my landlord, who had been all this while giving 
me an account of the repairs he had made in the house, 
and was now got into the story of the cracked glass in 
the dining-room. 



ON QUACK DOCTORS. 

Whatever may be the merits of the English in other 
sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of 
healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to human- 
ity, against which our advertising doctors are not possessed 
with a most infallible antidote. The professors of other 
arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things ; talk with 
doubt, and decide with hesitation : but doubting is entire- 
ly unknown in medicine : the advertising professors here 
delight in cases of difficulty ; be the disorder ever so 
desperate or radical, you will find numbers in every street, 
who, by levelling a pill at the part affected, promise a 
certain cure without loss of time, knowledge of a bedfel- 
low, or hinderance of business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profession, their 
benevolence amazes me. They not only, in general, give 
their medicines for half value, but use the most persua- 
sive remonstrances to induce the sick to come and be 
cured. Sure there must be something strangely obstinate 
41* 



486 ESSAYS. 

in an English patient who refuses so much health upon 
such easy terms ! Does he take a pride in being bloat- 
ed with a dropsy ? does he find pleasure in the alterna- 
tions of an intermittent fever ? or feel as much satisfaction 
in nursing up his gout, as he found pleasure in acquiring 
it ? He must ; otherwise he would never reject such re- 
peated assurances of instant relief. What can be more 
convincing than the manner in which the sick are invited 
to be well ? The doctor first begs the most earnest atten- 
tion of the public to what he is going to propose; he 
solemnly affirms the pill was never found to want suc- 
cess ; he produces a list of those who have been rescued 
from the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all 
this, there are many here who now and then think proper 
to be sick : — only sick, did I say ? there are some who 
even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Confucius, 
they die ! though they might have purchased the health- 
restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 

I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun- 
try for the encouragement given to the professors of this 
art ; with what indulgence does she foster up those of her 
own growth, and kindly cherish those that come from 
abroad ! Like a skilful gardener, she invites them from 
every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic 
strikes root as soon as imported, and feels the genial 
beam of favor; while the mighty metropolis, like one vast 
munificent dunghill, receives them indiscriminately to 
her breast, and supplies each with more than native nour- 
ishment. 

In other countries the physician pretends to cure disor- 
ders in the lump ; the same doctor who combats the gout 



ESSAYS. 487 

in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for a pain in the 
head ; and he who at one time cures a consumption, shall 
at another give' drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and 
ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack of all trades. Is 
the animal machine less complicated than a brass pin ? 
Not less than ten different hands are required to make a 
brass pin ; and shall the body be set right by one single 
operator ? 

The English are sensible of the force of this reasoning ; 
they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, another for 
the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, and inoculating 
doctors ; they have one doctor, who is modestly content 
with securing them from bug bites, and five hundred who 
prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes 
of the great, however minute or trifling, I must present 
you, inadequate as my abilities are to the subject, with an 
account of one or two of those personages who lead in 
this honorable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard Rock, 
F. U. N. This great man is short of stature, is fat, and 
waddles as he walks. He always wears a white three- 
tailed wig, nicely combed, and frizzled upon each cheek. 
Sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never ; it is indeed 
very remarkable that this extraordinary personage should 
never wear a hat ; but so it is, a hat he never wears. He 
is usually drawn, at the top of his own bills, sitting in his 
arm-chair, holding a little bottle between his finger and 
thumb, and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, 
packets, and gallipots. No man can promise fairer or 
better than he ; for, as he observes, " Be your disorder 



488 ESSAYS. 

never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, make yourself 
quite easy, I can cure you." 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal 
pretensions, is Dr. Timothy Franks, F. 0. G. H. living in 
the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably squab, his great 
rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the 
year of the Christian era 1692, and is, while I now write, 
exactly sixty-eight years three months and four days old. 
Age, however, has no ways impaired his usual health and 
vivacity ; I am told he generally walks with his breast 
open. This gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is 
particularly remarkable for a becoming assurance, which 
carries him gently through life ; for, except Dr. Rock, 
none are more blessed with the advantages of face than 
Dr. Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. 
I am almost ashamed to mention it. Let the foibles of 
the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart the whole. 
These two great men are actually now at variance ; like 
mere men, mere common mortals. Rock advises the 
world to beware of bog-trotting quacks : Franks retorts 
the wit and sarcasm, by fixing on his rival the odious 
appellation of Dumpling Dick. He calls the serious 
Doctor Rock, Dumpling Dick! Head of Confucius, 
what profanation ! Dumpling Dick ! What a pity, ye 
powers, that the learned, who were born mutually to as- 
sist in enlightening the world, should thus differ among 
themselves, and make even the profession ridiculous ! 
Sure the world is wide enough, at least, for two great 
personages to figure in : men of science should leave con- 
troversy to the little world below them ; and then we 



ESSAYS. 489 

might see Rock and Franks walking together, hand in 
hand, smiling onward to immortality. 



ADVENTURES OE A STROLLING PLAYER. 

I am fond of amusement, in whatever company it is to 
be found : and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever pleasing 
to me. I went some days ago to take a walk in St. 
James's Park, about the hour in which company leave it 
to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, and 
those who stayed seemed by their looks rather more willing 
to forget that they had an appetite, than gain one. I sat 
down on one of the benches, at the other end of which 
was seated a man in very shabby clothes. 

We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as usual 
upon such occasions ; and, at last, ventured upon conver- 
sation. "I beg pardon, sir," cried I, "but I think I 
have seen you before ; your face is familiar to me." 
" Yes, sir," replied he, " I have a good familiar face, as 
my friends tell me. I am as well known in every town 
in England as the dromedary, or live crocodile. You 
must understand, sir, that I have been these sixteen years 
merry-andrew to a puppet-show : last Bartholomew fair 
my master and I quarrelled, beat each other, and parted ; 
he to sell his puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rose- 
mary-lane, and I to starve in St. James's Park." 

" I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance 
should labor under any difficulties." " O, sir," returned 
he, " my appearance is very much at your service : but, 
though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few 



490 ESSAYS. 

that are merrier ; if I had twenty thousand a year I 
should be very merry ; and, thank the Fates, though not 
worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have three- 
pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three half- 
pence ; and, if I have no money, I never scorn to be 
treated by any that are kind enough to pay the reckoning. 
What think you, sir, of a steak and a tankard! You 
shall treat me now, and I will treat you again when I find 
you in the Park in love with eating, and without money 
to pay for a dinner." 

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a 
merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a neighbor- 
ing ale-house, and, in a few moments, had a frothing 
tankard, and a smoking steak, spread on the table before 
us. It is impossible to express how much the sight of 
such good cheer improved my companion's vivacity. " I 
like this dinner, sir," says he, " for three reasons ; first, 
because I am naturally fond of beef ; secondly, because I 
am hungry; and, thirdly and lastly, because I get it for 
nothing ; no meat eats so sweet as that for which we do 
not pay." 

He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seemed to 
correspond with his inclination. After dinner was over, 
he observed that the steak w T as tough ; " and yet, sir," 
returns he, " bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak to me. 
O the delights of poverty and a good appetite ! We beg- 
gars are the very fondlings of Nature ; the rich she treats 
like an arrant step-mother ; they are pleased with nothing ; 
cut a steak from what part you will, and it is insupport- 
ably tough ; dress it up with pickles, and even pickles 
cannot procure them an appetite. But the whole creation 



ESSAYS. 491 

is filled with good things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt 
out-tastes champagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels 
tokay. Joy, joy, my blood ; though our estates lie no 
w T here, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inunda- 
tion sweeps away half the grounds in Cornwall, I am 
content : I have no land there : if the stocks sink, that 
gives me no uneasiness ; I am no Jew." The fellow's 
vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity 
to know something of his life and circumstances ; and I 
entreated that he would indulge my desire. " That I 
will," said he, " and welcome ; only let us drink, to pre- 
vent our sleeping ; let us have another tankard, while we 
are awake ; let us have another tankard ; for, ah, how 
charming a tankard looks when full ! 

" You must know, then, that I am very well descended ; 
my ancestors have made some noise in the world, for my 
mother cried oysters, and my father beat a drum : I am 
told we have even had some trumpeters in our family. 
Many a nobleman cannot show so respectful a genealogy ; 
but that is neither here nor there. As I was their only 
child, my father designed to breed me up to his own 
employment, which was that of a drummer to a puppet- 
show. Thus the whole employment of my younger years 
was that of interpreter to Punch and King Solomon in 
all his glory. But, though my father was very fond of 
instructing me in beating all the marches and points of 
war, I made no very great progress, because I naturally 
had no ear for music ; so at the age of fifteen, I went and 
listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a drum, 
so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket also ; 
neither the one trade nor the other was to my taste, for I 



492 ESSAYS. 

was by nature fond of being a gentleman : besides, I was 
obliged to obey my captain ; he lias his will, I have mine 
and you have yours : now I very reasonably concluded, 
that it was much more comfortable for a man to obey his 
own will than another's. 

The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me the spleen ; 
I asked leave to quit the service ; but, as I was tall and 
strong, my captain thanked me for my kind intention, and 
said, because he had a regard for me we should not part. 
I wrote to my father a very dismal, penitent letter, and 
desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge ; 
but the good man was as fond of drinking as I was (sir, 
my service to you), and those who are fond of drinking 
never pay for other people's discharges : in short, he 
never answered my letter. What could be done ? If I 
have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, 
I must find an equivalent some other way ; and that must 
be by running away. I deserted, and that answered my 
purpose every bit as well as if I had bought my dis- 
charge. 

" Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment, 
I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not 
to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. 
One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a 
man, whom I afterward found to be the curate of the 
parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost 
smothered in the mud. He desired my assistance : I 
gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He 
thanked me for my trouble and was going off; but I 
followed him home, for I loved always to have a man 
thank me at his own door. The curate asked a 



ESSAYS. 493 

hundred questions ; as, whose son I was ; from whence I 
came ; and whether I would be faithful. I answered him 
greatly to his satisfaction, and gave myself one of the 
best characters in the world for sobriety (sir, I have the 
honor of drinking your health), discretion and fidelity. 
To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and 
hired me. With him I lived but two months ; we did not 
much like each other ; I was fond of eating, and he gave 
me but little to eat ; I loved a pretty girl, and the old 
woman, my fellow servant, was ill-natured and ugly. As 
they endeavored to starve me between them, I made a 
pious resolution to prevent their committing murder ; I 
stole the eggs as soon as they were laid ; I emptied every 
unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on ; whatever 
eatable came in my way was sure to disappear : in short, 
they found I would not do ; so I was discharged one morn- 
ing, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' 
wages. 

" While my money was getting ready, I employed my- 
self in making preparations for my departure ; two hens 
were hatching in an out-house ; I went and took the eggs 
from habit, and, not to separate the parents from the 
children, I lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After 
this piece of frugality, I returned to receive my money, 
and, with my knapsack on my back and a staff in my 
hand, I bid adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old bene- 
factor. I had not gone far from the house, when I heard 
behind me the cry of " Stop thief ! " but this only increas- 
ed my despatch : it would have been foolish for me to 
stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. 
But hold, I think I passed those two months at the 
42 



494 ESSAYS. 

curate's without drinking ; come, the times are dry, and 
may this be my poison if ever I spent two more pious, 
stupid months in all my life. 

" Well, after travelling some days, whom should I light 
upon but a company of strolling players ? The moment 
I saw them at a distance, my heart warmed to them : I 
had a sort of natural love for every thing of the vaga- 
bond order ; they were employed in settling their baggage 
which had been overturned in a narrow way ; I offered 
my assistance, which they accepted ; and we soon became 
so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This 
was a paradise to me ; they sung, danced, drank, ate, and 
travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of the 
Mirabels, I thought I had never lived till then ; I grew as 
merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was 
spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them ; I was 
a very good figure, as you see ; and, though I was poor, 
I was not modest. 

" I love a straggling life above all things in the world ; 
sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm to-day and 
cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get it, and drink 
when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. "We 
arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room 
at the Greyhound, where we resolved to exhibit Romeo 
and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave and the 
garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by a gentle- 
man from the theatre royal in Drury-lane ; Juliet, by a 
lady who had never appeared on any stage before ; and I 
was to snuff the candles ; all excellent in our way. We 
had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress them. 
The same coat that served Romeo, turned with the blue 



ESSAYS. 495 

lining outwards, served for his friend Mercutio ; a large 
piece of crape sufficed at once for Juliet's petticoat and 
pall ; a pestle and mortar, from a neighboring apothe- 
cary's, answered all the purposes of a bell : and our land- 
lord's own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill 
up the procession. In short, there were but three figures 
among us that might be said to be dressed with any pro- 
priety ; I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, and 
myself. Our performance gave universal satisfaction: 
the whole audience were enchanted with our powers. 

" There is one rule by which a strolling player may be 
ever secure of success ; that is, in our theatrical way of 
expressing it, to make a great deal of the character. To 
speak and act as in common life, is not playing, nor is it 
what people come to see : natural speaking, like sweet 
wine, runs glibly over the palate, and scarce leaves any 
taste behind it : but being high in a part resembles vine- 
gar, which grates upon the taste, and one feels it while he 
is drinking. To please in town or country, the way is, to 
cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap 
the pockets, and labor like one in the falling sickness ; 
that is the way to work for applause ; that is the way to 
gain it. 

" As we received much reputation for our skill on this 
first exhibition, it was but natural for me to ascribe part 
of the success to myself; I snuffed the candles ; and, let 
me tell you, that without a candle-snuffer, the piece would 
lose half its embellishments. In this manner we continued 
a fortnight, and drew tolerable houses : but the evening 
before our intended departure, we gave out our very best 
piece, in which all our strength was to be exerted. We 



496 ESSAYS. 

had great expectations from this, and even doubled our 
prices, when, behold ! one of the principal actors fell ill 
of a violent fever. This was a stroke like thunder to our 
little company : they were resolved to go, in a body, to 
scold the man for falling sick at so inconvenient a time, 
and that too of a disorder that threatened to be expensive. 
I seized the moment, and offered to act the part myself in 
his stead. The case was desperate ; they accepted my 
offer ; and I accordingly sat down with the part in my 
hand, and a tankard before me (sir, your health), and 
studied the character, which was to be rehearsed the next 
day, and played soon after. 

" I found my memory excessively helped by drinking : 
I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and bid adieu* 
to snuffing candles ever after. I found that Nature had 
designed me for more noble employments, and I was re- 
solved to take her when in the humor. We got together 
in order to rehearse, and I informed my companions, mas- 
ters now no longer, of the surprising change I felt within 
me. Let the sick man, said I, be under no uneasiness to 
get well again ; I '11 fill his place to universal satisfaction : 
he may even die, if he thinks proper ; I '11 engage that 
he shall never be missed. I rehearsed before them, strut- 
ted, ranted, and received applause. They soon gave out 
that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and immedi- 
ately all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I 
ascended the stage, however, I concluded within myself, 
that, as I brought money to the house, I ought to have 
my share in the profits. Gentlemen (said I, addressing 
our company), I do n't pretend to direct you ; far be it 
from me to treat you with so much ingratitude ; you have 



ESSAYS. 497 

published my name in the bills with the utmost good-na- 
ture ; and, as affairs stand, cannot act without me ; so, 
gentlemen, to show you my gratitude, I expect to be paid 
for my acting as much as any of you, otherwise I declare 
off; I'll brandish my snuffers and clip candles as usual. 
This was a very disagreeable proposal, but they found 
that it was impossible to refuse it ; it was irresistible, it 
was adamant : they consented, and I went on in king 
Bajazet : my frowning brows bound with a stocking stuff- 
ed into a turban, while on my captived arms I brandish- 
ed a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have fitted me for the 
part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my very entrance 
excited universal applause : I looked round on the audi- 
ence with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, 
for that is the rule among us. As it was a very passion- 
ate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full glasses 
(the tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia ! it is 
almost inconceivable how I went through it. Tamerlane 
was but a fool to me; though he was sometimes loud 
enough too, yet I was still louder than he ; but then, be- 
sides, I had attitudes in abundance ; in general, I kept 
my arms folded up thus upon the pit of my stomach ; it 
is the way at Drury-lane, and has always a fine effect. 
The tankard would sink to the bottom before I could get 
through the whole of my merits : in short, I came off like 
a prodigy ; and, such was my success, that I could ravish 
the laurels even from a surloin of beef. The principal 
gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me, after the 
play was over, to compliment me on my success : one 
praised my voice, another my person : Upon my word, 
says the squire's lady, he will make one of the finest 
42* 



498 ESSAYS. 

actors in Europe ; I say it, and I think I am something 
of a judge. Praise in the beginning is agreeable enough, 
and we receive it as a favor ; but when it comes in great 
quantities we regard it only as a debt, which nothing but 
our merit could extort ; instead of thanking them, I in- 
ternally applauded myself. We were desired to give our 
piece a second time ; we obeyed, and I was applauded 
even more than before. 

" At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse-race 
some distance from thence. I shall never think of Ten- 
terden without tears of gratitude and respect. The ladies 
and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are very good 
judges of plays and actors. Come, let us drink their 
healths, if you please, sir. We quitted the town, I say : 
and there was a wide difference between my coming in 
and going out : I entered the town a candle snuffer, and I 
quitted it a hero! — Such is the world — little to-day, 
and great to-morrow. I could say a great deal more up- 
on that subject, something truly sublime, upon the ups 
and downs of fortune ; but it would give us both the 
spleen, and so I shall pass it over. 

" The races were ended before we arrived at the next 
town, which was no small disappointment to our compa- 
ny ; however, we were resolved to take all we could get. 
I played capital characters there too, and came off with 
my usual brilliancy. I sincerely believe I should have 
been the first actor in Europe, had my growing merit 
been properly cultivated ; but there came an unkindly 
frost which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once 
more down to the common standard of humanity. I 
played Sir Harry Wildair ; all the country ladies were 



ESSAYS. 499 

charmed; if I but drew out my snuff-box, the whole 
house was in a roar of rapture ; when I exercised my 
cudgel. I thought they would have fallen into convulsions. 

" There was here a lady, who had received an educa- 
tion of nine months in London, and this gave her preten- 
sions to taste, which rendered her the indisputable mis- 
tress of the ceremonies wherever she came. She was 
informed of my merits : every body praised me : yet 
she refused at first going to see me perform ; she could 
not conceive, she said, anything but stuff from a stroller ; 
talked something in praise of Garrick, and amazed the 
ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones and cadences. 
She was at last, however, prevailed upon to go ; and it 
was privately intimated to me what a judge was to be 
present at my next exhibition : however, no way intimi- 
dated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my 
breeches, and the other in my bosom, as ususal at Drury- 
lane ; but, instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole 
audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who had 
been nine months in London ; from her they expected the 
decision which was to secure the general's truncheon in 
my hands, or sink me down into a theatrical letter-carrier. 
I opened my snuff-box, took snuff; the lady was solemn, 
and so were the rest. I broke my cudgel on Alderman 
Smuggler's back ; still gloomy, melancholy all ; the lady 
groaned and shrugged her shoulders. I attempted, by 
laughing myself, to excite at least a smile ; but the devil 
a cheek could I perceive wrinkled into sympathy. I 
found it would not do ; all my good-humor now became 
forced ; my laughter was converted into hysteric grin- 
ning; and while I pretended spirits, my eyes showed the 



500 ESSAYS. 

agony of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an in- 
tention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; my 
fame expired : — I am here, and the tankard is 



RULES ENJOINED TO BE OBSERVED AT A RUSSIAN 
ASSEMBLY. 

When Catharina Alexowna was made empress of 
Russia, the women were in an actual state of bondage ; 
but she undertook to introduce mixed assemblies, as in 
other parts of Europe ; she altered the women's dress by 
substituting the fashions of England ; instead of furs, she 
brought in the use of taffeta and damask ; and cornets 
and commodes instead of caps of sable. The women now 
found themselves no longer shut up in separate apart- 
ments, but saw company, visited each other, and were 
present at every entertainment. 

But as the laws to this effect were directed to a savage 
people, it is amusing enough to see the manner in which 
the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite unknown 
among them : the czarina was satisfied with introducing 
them, for she found it impossible to render them polite. 
An ordinance was therefore published according to their 
notions of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has 
never been before printed that we know of, we shall give 
our readers. 

I. The person at whose house the assembly is to be 
kept, shall signify the same by hanging out a bill, or by 



501 



giving some other public notice, by way of advertisment, 
to persons of both sexes. 

II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than four 
or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue longer than 
ten at night 

III. The master of the house shall not be obliged to 
meet his guests, or conduct them out, or keep them com- 
pany ; but though he is exempt from all tins, he is to find 
them chairs, candles, liquors, and all other necessaries 
that company may ask for: he is likewise to provide them 
with cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. 

IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or going 
away ; it is enough for a person to appear in the as- 
sembly. 

- V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, as 
he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hinder him, or 
take exception at what he does, upon pain of emptying 
the great eagle (a pint bowl full of brandy) : it shall like- 
wise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to salute the 
company. 

VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior officers, 
merchants, and tradesmen of note, head-workmen, es- 
pecially carpenters, and persons employed in chancery, 
are to have liberty to enter the assemblies ; as likewise 
their wives and children. 

VII. A particular place shall be assigned the footmen, 
except those of the house, that there may be room enough 
in the apartments designed for the assembly. 

VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pretence 
whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before nine. 

IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions and com- 



502 ESSAYS. 

mands, etc. shall not be riotous : no gentleman shall at- 
temp to force a kiss, and no person shall offer to strike a 
woman in the assembly, under pain of future exclusion. 

Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, in their 
very appearance carry an air of ridicule and satire. But 
politeness must enter every country by degrees ; and 
these rules resemble the breeding of a clow% awkward 
but sincere. 



THE GENIUS OF LOVE : 

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 

The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that pre- 
cede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numerous 
as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this 
country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, 
but the commerce between the sexes. Their encourage- 
ments for propagating hemp, madder, and tobacco, are 
indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only commodity 
that meets with none. 

Yet, from the vernal softness of the air, the verdure of 
the fields, the transparency of the streams, and the beauty 
of the women, I know few countries more proper to invite 
to courtship. Here Love might sport among painted lawns 
and warbling groves, and revel amidst gales, wafting at 
once both fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems he 
has forsaken the island ; and when a couple are now to 
be married, mutual love, or a union of minds, is the last 
and most trifling consideration. If their goods and chat- 
tels can be brought to unite, their sympathetic souls are 



ESSAYS. 503 

ever ready to guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's 
mortgaged lawn becomes enamored of the lady's mar- 
riageble grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties 
are piously in love — according to act of parliament. 

Thus they who have a fortune, are possessed at least 
of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those that 
have none. I am told there was a time when ladies, with 
no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a chance 
for husbands, at least among the ministers of the church, 
or the officers of the army. The blush and innocence of 
sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over these 
two professions ; but of late, all the little traffic of blush- 
ing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by 
an act in that case wisely made and provided. A lady's 
whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared 
utterly contraband, till she arrives in the warm latitude 
of twenty-two, where commodities of this nature are 
found too often to decay. She is then permitted to dim- 
ple and smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to for- 
sake her ; and, when perhaps, grown ugly, is charitably 
intrusted with an unlimited use of her charms. Her 
lovers, however, by this time, have forsaken her ; the 
captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest him- 
self leaves her in solitude to bewail her virginity, and 
she dies even without benefit of clergy. 

Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with as 
much earnestness as the rudest savage of Sofala. The 
Genius is surely now no more. In every region I find 
enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice in Europe, 
jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, poverty among 
the Tartars, and lust in Circassia, are all prepared to op- 



504 ESSAYS. 

pose his power. The Genius is certainly banished from 
earth, though once adored under such a variety of forms. 
He is no where to be found ; and all that the ladies of 
each country can produce, are but a few trifling relics, as 
instances of his former residence and favor. 

"The Genius of Love," says the eastern apologue., 
" had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where 
every breeze was health, and every sound produced tran- 
quillity. His temple at first was crowded, but eveiy age 
lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled their devo- 
tion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at length quite 
deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more propi- 
tious region ; and he apprized the fair sex of every coun- 
try, where he could hope for a proper reception, to assert 
their right to his presence among them. In return to 
this proclamation, embassies were sent from the ladies of 
every part of the world to invite him, and to display the 
superiority of their claims. 

" And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No coun- 
try could compare with them for modesty, either of look, 
'dress or behavior; their eyes were never lifted from the 
ground ; their robes, of the most beautiful silk, hid their 
hands, bosom, and neck, while their faces only were left 
uncovered. They indulged no airs that might express 
loose desire, and they seemed to study only the graces of 
inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plucked eye- 
brows were, however, alleged by the genius against them % 
but he set them entirely aside when he came to examine 
their little feet. 

" The beauties of Circassia next made their appear- 
ance. They advanced, hand in hand,, singing the most 



ESSAYS. 505 

immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most luxu- 
rious attitudes. Their dress was but half a covering; 
the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were exposed 
to view, which, after some time, seemed rather to satiate, 
than inflame desire. The lily and the rose contended in 
forming their complexions ; and a soft sleepiness of eye 
added irresistible poignance to their charms ; but their 
beauties were obtruded, not offered to their admirers ; 
they seemed to give, rather than receive courtship ; and 
the genius of love dismissed them, as unworthy his re- 
gard, since they exchanged the duties of love, and made 
themselves not the pursued, but the pursuing sex. 

" The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- 
ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly 
sequestered by nature for his abode. Shady mountains 
fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea- 
borne breezes, on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance to 
the air. Their complexions were of a bright yellow, 
that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson tulip 
seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Their features and 
limbs were delicate beyond the statuary's power to ex- 
press ; and their teeth whiter than their own ivory. He 
was almost persuaded to reside among them, when unfor- 
tunately one of the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio. 

" In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern 
America would not be left behind; their charms were 
found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination could 
conceive ; and served to show, that beauty could be per- 
fect, even with the seeming disadvantage of a brown 
complexion. But their savage education rendered them 
utterly unqualified to make the proper use of their pow- 



506 ESSAYS. 

er, and they were rejected as being incapable of uniting 
mental with sensual satisfaction. In this manner the 
deputies of other kingdoms had their suits rejected : the 
black beauties of Benin, and the tawny daughters of 
Borneo; the women of Wida with scarred faces, and 
the hideous virgins of CafFraria; the squab ladies of 
Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair ones of Pat- 
agonia. 

" The beauties of Europe at last appeared : grace was 
in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every eye. 
It was the universal opinion, while they were approach- 
ing, that they would prevail : and the genius seemed to 
lend them his most favorable attention. They opened 
their pretensions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortu- 
nately, as their orator proceeded, she happened to let fall 
the words, house in town, settlement, and pin-money. 
These seemingly harmless terms had instantly a surpris- 
ing effect : the genius, with ungovernable rage, burst from 
amidst the circle ; and, waving his youthful pinions, left 
this earth, and flew back to those etherial mansions 
from whence he descended. 

" The whole assembly was struck with amazement ; 
they now justly apprehended that female power would be 
no more, since Love had now forsaken them. They con- 
tinued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when 
it was proposed by one of the number, that, since the 
real Genius of Love had left them, in order to continue 
their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; and 
that the ladies of every country should furnish him with 
what each liked best. This proposal was instantly rel- 
ished and agreed to. An idol of gold was formed by 



507 



uniting the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no 
way resembling the departed genius. The ladies of China 
furnished the monster with wings; those of Kashmire 
supplied him with horns ; the dames of Europe clapped 
a purse in his hand ; and the virgins of Congo furnished 
him with a tail. Since that time, all the vows addressed 
to Love, are in reality paid to the idol ; and, as in other 
false religions, the adoration seems more fervent where 
the heart is least sincere." 



HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OF AN ENGLISH 
DISABLED SOLDIER. 

No observation is more common, and at the same time 
more true, than that " one half of the world is ignorant 
how the other half lives." The misfortunes of the great 
are held up to engage our attention ; are enlarged upon 
in tones of declamation ; and the world is called upon to 
gaze at the noble sufferers : the great, under the pressure 
of calamity, are conscious of several others sympathizing 
with their distress ; and have, at once, the comfort of 
admiration and pity. 

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes 
with fortitude when the whole world is looking on : men 
in such circumstances will act bravely even from motives 
of vanity : but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave 
adversity : who, without friends to encourage, acquaintan- 
ces to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfor- 
tunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is 
truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves ad- 



508 ESSAYS. 

miration, and should be held up for our imitation and 
respect- 
While the slightest inconveniences of the great are 
magnified into calamities ; while tragedy mouths out their 
sufferings in all the strains of eloquence — the miseries 
of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some of the 
lower ranks of people undergo more real hardships in one 
day, than those of a more exalted station suffer in their 
whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the 
meanest of our common sailors and soldiers endure with- 
out murmuring or regret ; without passionately declaiming 
against Providence, or calling on their fellows to be gazers 
on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of mis- 
ery, and yet they entertain their hard fate without re- 
pining. 

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, op 
a Babutin, complain of their misfortunes and hardships, 
whose greatest calamity was that of being unable to visit 
a certain spot of earth, to which they had foolishly 
attached an idea of happiness ! Their distresses were 
pleasures compared to what many of the adventuring 
poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, 
drank, and slept ; they had slaves to attend them, and 
were sure of subsistence for life; while many of their 
fellow-creatures are obliged to wander without a friend to 
comfort or assist them, and even without a shelter from 
the severity of the season. 

. 1 have been led into these reflections from accidentally 
meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew 
when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at 
one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I 



509 



knew him to be honest and industrious when in the 
country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him 
to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving him 
what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of 
his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was 
reduced to his present distress. The disabled soldier, for 
such he was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching 
his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an 
attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his his- 
tory as follows : — 

" As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to 
have gone through any more than other folks : for except 
the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't 
know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to complain ; 
there is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his 
legs, and an eye to boot ; but, thank Heaven, it is not so 
bad with me yet. 

" I was born in Shropshire ; my father was a laborer, 
and died when I was five years old, so I was put upon 
the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, 
the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I be- 
longed, or where I was born, so they sent me to another 
parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought, in 
my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they 
would not let me be born in any parish at all ; but at last, 
however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a 
scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters ; 
but the master of the workhouse put me to business as 
soon as I was able to handle a mallet ; and here I lived 
an easy kind of a life for five years ; I only wrought ten 
hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided 
43* 



510 ESSAYS. 

for my labor. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of 
the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away ; but 
what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house, 
and the yard before the door, and that was enough for 
me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up 
both early and late ; but I ate and drank well, and liked 
my business well enough, till he died, when I was obliged 
to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek 
my fortune. 

" In this manner I went from town to town, worked 
when I could get employment, and starved when I could 
get none ; when happening one day to go through a field 
belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare crossing 
the path just before me ; and I believe the devil put it 
into my head to fling my stick at it : — well, what will 
you have on 't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it 
away in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he 
called me a poacher and a villain ; and, collaring me, de- 
sired I would give an account of myself, I fell upon my 
knees,, begged his worship's pardon, and began to give a 
full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and 
generation ; but though I gave a very good account, the 
justice would not believe a syllable I had to say ; so I 
was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, and 
sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be transported 
as a vagabond. 

" People may say this and that of being in jail ; but, 
for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as 
ever I was in in all my life. I had my bellyfull to eafc 
and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was 
too good to last for ever; so I was taken out of prison, 



511 



after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off, with 
two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an 
indifferent passage ; for, being all confined in the hold, 
more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet 
air; and those that remained were sickly enough, God 
knows. When we came ashore we were sold to the 
planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I 
was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was 
obliged to work among the negroes ; and I served out my 
time, as in duty bound to do. 

" When my time was expired, I worked my passage 
home, and glad I was to see old England again, because 
I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should 
be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much 
care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, 
and did little jobs when I could get them, 

" I was very happy in this manner for some time, till 
one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked 
me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged 
to a press-gang : I was carried before the justice, and as 
I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, 
whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. 
I chose the latter ; and, in this post of a gentleman, I 
served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of 
Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through 
the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon 
made me well again. 

" When the peace came on I was discharged, and as I 
could not work, because my wound was sometimes trouble- 
some, I listed for a landman in the East-India company's 



512 ESSAYS. 

service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles ; 
and I verily believe, that if I could read or write, our 
captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not 
my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell 
sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty 
pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the 
present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have 
the pleasure of spending my money; but the government 
wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever 
I could set foot on shore. 

" The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fel- 
low : he swore he knew that I understood my business 
well, but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be idle ; 
but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he 
beat me without considering what he was about. I had 
still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some com- 
fort to me under every beating ; and the money I might 
have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the 
French, and so I lost all. 

" Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them 
died because they were not used to live in a jail ; but 
for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. 
One night as I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a 
warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I 
was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern 
in his hand. Jack, says he to me, will you knock out the 
French sentries' brains ? I don't care, says I, striving to 
keep myself awake, if I lend a hand. Then follow me, 
says he, and I hope we shall do business. So up I got, 
and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, 



ESSAYS. 513 

about my middle, and went with him to fight the French- 
man. I hate the French because they are all slaves, and 
wear wooden shoes. 

" Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to 
beat five French at any time ; so we went down to the 
door, where both the sentries were posted, and, rushing 
upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked 
them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the 
quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the har- 
bor and put to sea. We had not been here three days 
before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who 
were glad of so many good hands ; and we consented to 
run our chance. However, we had not so much good 
luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the 
Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but 
twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. 
The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we 
should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some 
more men left behind ; but unfortunately we lost all our 
men just as we were going to get the victory. 

" I was once more in the power of the French, and I 
believe it would have gone hard with me had I been 
brought back to Brest : but, by good fortune we were re- 
taken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell you, that 
in that engagement I was wounded in two places ; I lost 
four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If 
I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use 
of my hand on board a king's ship, and not aboard a pri- 
vateer, I should have been entitled to clothing and main- 
tenance during the rest of my life ; but that was not my 
chance : one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, 



514 ESSAYS. 

and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be 
God ! I enjoy good health, and will forever love liberty 
and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England 
forever, — huzza ! " 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration 
at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid ac- 
knowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery, 
serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it. 



ON THE FRAILTY OF MAN. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE ORDINARY OF NEWGATE. 

Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his 
steps, unacquainted with what is to happen in this life ; 
and perhaps no man is a more manifest instance of the 
truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Cibber, just now gone 
out of the world. Such a variety of turns of fortune, 
yet such a persevering uniformity of conduct, appears in 
all that happened in his short span, that the whole may 
be looked upon as one regular confusion ; every action of 
his life was matter of wonder and surprise, and his death 
was an astonishment. 

This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who 
gave him a very good education, and a great deal of good 
learning, so that he could read and write before he was 
sixteen. However, he early discovered an inclination to 
follow lewd courses ; he refused to take the advice of his 
parents, and pursued the bent of his inclination ; he 
played at cards on the Sundays, called himself a gentle- 
man, fell out with his mother and laundress ; and, even in 



515 



these early days, his father was frequently heard to ob- 
serve, that young The. — would be hanged. 

As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of pleas- 
ure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he begged 
the guinea that bought it ; and was once known to give 
three pounds for a plate of green peas, which he had col- 
lected over-night as charity for a friend in distress ; he 
ran into debt with every body that would trust him, and 
none could build a sconce better than he ; so that, at last, 
his creditors swore with one accord that The. — would 
be hanged. 

But, as getting into debt by a man who had no visible 
means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing that 
every reader is not acquainted with, I must explain that 
point a little, and that to his satisfaction. 

There are three ways of getting into debt: first, by 
pushing a face ; as thus, " You, Mr. Lustring, send me 
home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but hark'ye, 
do n't think I ever intend to pay you for it — damme." 
At this, the mercer laughs heartily, cuts off the paduasoy, 
and sends it home ; nor is he, till too late, surprised to 
find the gentleman had said nothing but truth, and kept 
his word. 

The second method of running into debt is called 
fineering ; which is getting goods made up in such «a 
fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser; and, 
if the tradesman refuses to give them upon credit, then 
threaten to leave them upon his hands. 

But the third and best method is called, " Being the 
good customer." The gentleman first buys some trifle, 
and pays for it in ready money ; he comes a few days 



516 ESSAYS. 

after with nothing about him but bank bills, and buys, we 
will suppose, a sixpenny tweezer-case ; the bills are too 
great to be changed, so he promises to return punctually 
the day after, and pay for what he has bought. In this 
promise he is punctual ; and this is repeated for eight or 
ten times, till his face is well known, and he has got, at 
last, the character of a good customer. By this means 
he gets credit for something considerable, and then never 
pays it. 

In all this the young man, who is the unhappy subject 
of our present reflections, was very expert, and could face, 
fineer, and bring custom to a shop, with any man in 
England ; none of his companions could exceed him in 
this ; and his companions at last said that The. — would 
be hanged. 

As he grew old, he grew never the better ; he loved 
ortolans and green peas, as before ; he drank gravy-soup, 
when he could get it, and always thought his oysters 
tasted best when he got them for nothing, or, which was 
just the same, when he bought them upon tick ; thus the 
old man kept up the vices of the youth, and what he 
wanted in power he made up in inclination ; so that all 
the world thought that old The. — would be hanged. 

And now, reader, I have brought him to his last scene ; 
a scene where, perhaps, my duty should have obliged me 
to assist. You expect, perhaps, his dying words, and the 
tender farewell of his wife and children ; you expect an 
account of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejacula- 
tions, and the papers he left behind him. In this I can- 
not indulge your curiosity : for, oh, the mysteries of fate ! 
The. — was drowned. 



517 



" Reader," as Hervey saith, " pause and ponder, and 
ponder and pause ;'■ who knows what thy own end may- 
be ? 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

There are few subjects which have been more written 
upon and less understood, than that of friendship. To fol- 
low the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being the 
assuager of pain, becomes the source of every incon- 
venience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from 
friendship, dissolve the connection, and by drawing the 
bands too closely, at length break them. Almost all our 
romance and novel writers are of this kind; they per- 
suade us to friendship, which we find it impossible to sus- 
tain to the last ; so that this sweetener of life, under 
proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inaccessi- 
ble or uneasy. It is certain, the best method to cultivate 
this virtue is by letting it, in some measure, make itself; 
a similitude of minds or studies, and even sometimes a 
diversity of pursuits, will produce all the pleasures that 
arise from it. The current of tenderness widens as it 
proceeds ; and two men imperceptibly find their hearts 
filled with good-nature for each other, when they were at 
first only in pursuit of mirth or relaxation. 

Friendship is like a debt of honor ; the moment it is 
talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more 
ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find, that 
those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, 
find ingratitude generally repays their endeavors. That 
44 



518 ESSAYS. 

circle of beings, which dependance gathers round us, is 
almost ever unfriendly ; they secretly wish the terms of 
their connections more nearly equal; and, where they 
even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all 
their affections for their patron only in the hour of his 
decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid upon 
such minds, only increases their burden ; they feel them- 
selves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and 
their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resentment 
at the hand that is stretched out with offers of service 
and relief. 

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was 
to be brought from riches ; and, as he was possessed of 
great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, 
he resolved to gather a circle of the best men round him. 
Among the number of his dependants was Musidorus, 
with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud 
than his patron. His circumstances, however, were such 
as forced him to stoop to the good offices of his superior, 
and he saw himself daily among a number of others 
loaded with benefits and protestations of friendship. 
These, in the usual course of the world, he thought it 
prudent to accept : but, while he gave his esteem, he 
could not give his heart. A want of affection breaks out 
in the most trifling instances, and Plautinus had skill 
enough to observe the minutest actions of the man he 
wished to make his friend. In these he even found his 
aim disappointed; Musidorus claimed an exchange of 
hearts, which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of claims, 
could never think of bestowing. 

It may be easily supposed that the reserve of our poor 



ESSAYS. 519 

proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; and such 
indeed, in the common acceptation of the world, it was. 
Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was remarked as the 
ungrateful man ; he had accepted favors, it was said ; and 
still had the insolence to pretend to independence. The 
event, however, justified his conduct. Plautinus, by mis- 
placed liberality, at length became poor, and it was then 
that Musidorus first thought of making a friend of him. 
He flew to the man of fallen fortune, with an offer of all 
he had ; wrought under his direction with assiduity ; and, 
by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in 
that state of life from which one of them had formerly 
fallen. 

To this story, taken from modern life, I shall add one 
more, taken from a Greek writer of antiquity: — Two 
Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had fought 
many campaigns together, and a participation of danger 
at length bred a union of hearts. They were remarked 
through the whole army, as the two friendly brothers ; 
they felt and fought for each other. Their friendship 
might have continued, without interruption, till death, had 
not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the 
other, which was in his promotion to be a centurion under 
the famous John, who headed a particular part of the 
Jewish malcontents. 

From this moment, their former love was converted 
into the most inveterate enmity. They attached them- 
selves to opposite factions, and sought each other's lives 
in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they 
continued for more than two years, vowing mutual re- 
venge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of 



520 ESSAYS. 

aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, 
to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the 
Romans, it became victorious, and drove John with all 
his adherents into the temple. History has given us 
more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of 
that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered 
round it ; the whole temple was in flames : and thousands 
were seen amidst them within its sacred circuit. It was 
in this situation of things, that the now successful soldier 
saw his former friend, upon the battlements of the high- 
est tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to 
be consumed with flames. All his former tenderness now 
returned ; he saw the man of his bosom just going to 
perish ; and unable to withstand the impulse, he ran, 
spreading his arms, and cried out to his friend to leap 
down from the top, and find safety with him. The cen- 
turion from above heard and obeyed ; and, casting him- 
self from the top of the tower into his fellow-soldier's 
arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot ; one being crushed 
to death by the weight of his companion, and the other 
dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall. 



FOLLY OF ATTEMPTING TO LEARN WISDOM IN 
RETIREMENT. 

Books, while they teach us to respect the interests of 
others, often make us unmindful of our own ; while they 
instruct the youthful reader to grasp at social happiness, 
he grows miserable in detail ; and, attentive to universal 
harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sus- 



521 



tain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, the philosopher 
who describes the inconveniences of life in such pleasing 
colors, that the pupil grows enamored of distress, longs to 
try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor 
fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them. 

A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new 
to the world, and unacquainted with man but by philo- 
sophic information, may be considered as a being whose 
mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly 
unqualified for a journey through life, yet confident of 
his own skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence, 
blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last un- 
done. 

He first has learned from books, and then lays it down 
as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in 
excess : and he has been long taught to detest vice and 
love virtue. Warm, therefore, in attachments, and stead- 
fast in enmity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; 
expects from those he loves unerring integrity ; and con- 
signs his enemies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. 
On this principle he proceeds ; and here begin his disap- 
pointments : upon a closer inspection of human nature, 
he perceives that he should have moderated his friend- 
ship, and softened his severity ; for he often finds the ex- 
cellences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and 
the faults of the other brightened with virtue ; he finds 
no character so sanctified that has not its failings, none so 
infamous, but has somewhat to attract our esteem ; he 
beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters. 

He noAV, therefore, but too late, perceives that his re- 
gards should have been more cool, and his hatred less vio- 
44* 



522 ESSAYS. 

lent ; that the trulj wise seldom court romantic friend- 
ship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resentment 
even of the wicked ; every moment gives him fresh in- 
stances that the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn 
too closely ; and that those whom he has treated with dis- 
respect, more than retaliate the injury : at length, there- 
fore, he is obliged to confess, that he has declared war 
upon the vicious half of mankind, without being able to 
form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his 
quarrel. 

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far 
advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the just con- 
sequence of the many enemies his conduct has created, 
yet he is resolved to meet it without shrinking ; philoso- 
phers have described poverty in most charming colors ; 
and even his vanity is touched in thinking he shall show 
the world in himself one more example of patience, forti- 
tude and resignation : " Come, then, O Poverty ! for 
what is there in thee dreadful to the wise ? Temperance, 
health, and frugality, walk in thy train ; cheerfulness and 
liberty are ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed 
of thee of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed ? The 
running brook, the herbs of the field, can amply satisfy 
nature ; man wants but little, nor that little long. Come, 
then, O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with ad- 
miration at the true philosopher's resignation." 

The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the 
call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the charming 
figure books and his own imagination had painted. As 
when an eastern bride, whom her friends and relations 
had long described as a model of perfection, pays her first 



523 



visit, the longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he 
had never seen before ; but instead of a countenance 
blazing with beauty like the sun, he beholds deformity 
shooting icicles to his heart ; such appears Poverty to 
her new entertainer : all the fabric of enthusiasm is at 
once demolished, and a, thousand miseries rise upon its 
ruins ; while Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost 
in the hideous procession. 

The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to 
look at him while he is eating : he finds that in proportion 
as he grows poor, the world turns its back upon him, and 
gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty 
of solitude. It might be agreeable enough to play the 
philosopher, while we are conscious that - mankind are 
spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of sturdy 
contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when 
not one creature will assist at the exhibition ? Thus is 
he forsaken of men, while his fortitude wants the satis- 
faction even- of self-applause ; for either he does not feel 
his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility; 
or he disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. 

Spleen now begins to take up the man ; not dis- 
tinguishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind 
with detestation : and commencing man-hater, seeks soli- 
tude to be at liberty to rail. 

It has-been said, that he who retires to solitude is 
either a beast or an angel : the censure is too severe, and 
the praise unmerited ; the discontented being, who retires 
from society, is generally some good-natured man who 
has begun life without experience, and knew not how to 
gain it in his intercourse with mankind. 



524 



LETTER, 



SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, AT 
THE TIME OP THE CORONATION. 

Sik — I nave the honor of being a common-council- 
man, and am greatly pleased with a paragraph from 
Southampton in yours of yesterday. There we learn 
that the mayor and aldermen of that loyal borough had 
the particular satisfaction of celebrating the royal nup- 
tials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means the 
gentlemen had the pleasure of filling their bellies, and 
showing their loyalty, together. I must confess it would 
give me pleasure to see some such method of testifying 
our loyalty practised in this metropolis, of which I am an 
unworthy member. Instead of presenting bis majesty 
(God bless him) on every occasion with our formal ad- 
dresses, we might thus sit comfortably down to dinner, 
and wish him prosperity in a surloin of beef; upon our 
army levelling the walls of a town, or besieging a fortifi- 
cation, we .might at our city-feast imitate our brave troops, 
and demolish the walls of a venison-pasty, or besiege the 
shell of a turtle, with as great a certainty of success. 

At present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, 
unsocial manner of drawing up addresses upon every oc- 
casion ; and though I have attended upon six cavalcades, 
and two foot-processions, in a single year, yet I came 
away as lean and hungry, as if I had been a juryman at 
the Old Bailey. For my part, Mr. Printer, I do n't see 
what is got by these processions and addresses, except an 
appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, we all have in a pretty 
good degree, without ever leaving our own houses for it. 
It is true, our gowns of mazarine blue, edged with fur, cut 



ESSAYS. 525 

a pretty figure enough, parading it through the streets, 
and so my wife tells me. In fact, I generally bow to all 
my acquaintance, when thus in full dress ; but, alas ! as 
the proverb has it, fine clothes never fill the belly. 

But even though all this bustling, parading, and pow- 
dering, through the streets, be agreeable enough to many 
of us ; yet, I would have my brethren consider whether 
the frequent repetition of it be so agreeable to our betters 
above. To be introduced to court, to see the queen, to 
kiss hands, to smile upon lords, to ogle the ladies, and all 
the other fine things there, may, I grant, be a perfect show 
to us that view it but seldom ; but it may be a trouble- 
some business enough to those who are to settle such 
ceremonies as these every day. To use an instance 
adapted to all our apprehensions ; suppose my family and 
I should go to Bartholomew fair. Very well, going to 
Bartholomew fair, the whole sight is perfect rapture to 
us, who are only spectators once and away ; but I am of 
opinion, that the wire-walker and fire-eater find no such 
great sport in all this ; I am of opinion they had as lief 
remain behind the curtain, at their own pastimes, drink- 
ing beer, eating shrimps, and smoking tobacco. 

Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say on 
these occasions, but what he knows perfectly well already ? 
I believe, if I were to reckon up, I could not find above 
five hundred disaffected in the whole kingdom ; and here 
we are every day telling his majesty how loyal we are. 
Suppose the addresses of a people, for instance, should 
run thus : — 

" May it please your m y, we are many of us worth 

a hundred thousand pounds, and are possessed of several 



526 ESSAYS. 

other inestimable advantages. For the preservation of 
this money and those advantages we are chiefly indebted 
to your m y. We are, therefore, once more assem- 
bled, to assure your m y of our fidelity. This, it is 

true, we have lately assured your m y five or six 

times ; but we are willing once more to repeat what can't 
be doubted, and to kiss your royal hand, and the queen's 
hand, and thus sincerely to convince you, that we never 
shall do any thing to deprive you of one loyal subject, or 
any one of ourselves of one hundred thousand pounds." 
Should we not, upon reading such an address, think that 
people a little silly, who thus made such unmeaning pro- 
fessions ? Excuse me, Mr. Printer : no man upon earth 
hath a more profound respect for the abilities of the alder- 
men and common-council than I ; but I could wish they 
would not take up a monarch's time in these good-natured 
trifles, who, I am told, seldom spends a moment in vain. 

The example set by the city of London will probably 
be followed by every other community in the British em- 
pire. Thus we shall have a new set of addresses from 
every little borough with but four freemen and a burgess ; 
day after day shall we see them come up with hearts fill- 
ed with gratitude, " laying the vows of a loyal people at 
the foot of the throne." Death ! Mr. Printer, they will 
hardly leave our courtiers time to scheme a single project 
for beating the French ; and our enemies may gain upon 
us, while we are thus employed in telling our governor 
how much we intend to keep them under. 

But a people by too frequent use of addresses may by 
this means come at last to defeat the very purpose for 
which they are designed. If we are thus exclaiming in 



ESSAYS. 527 

raptures upon every occasion, we deprive ourselves of the 
powers of flattery, when there may be a real necessity. 
A boy three weeks ago swimming across the Thames, 
was every minute crying out, for his amusement, " I 've 
got the cramp, I 've got the cramp : " the boatmen pushed 
off once or twice, and they found it was fun; he soon 
after cried out in earnest, but nobody believed him, and 
he sunk to the bottom. 

In short, sir, I am quite displeased with any unneces- 
sary cavalcade whatever. I hope we shall soon have 
occasion to triumph, and then I shall be ready myself, 
either to eat at a turtle-feast or to shout at a bonfire : and 
will either lend my faggot at the fire, or flourish my hat 
at every loyal health that may be proposed. 

I am, sir, etc. 



A SECOND LETTER, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, 
DESCRIBING THE CORONATION. 

Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who troub- 
led you some days ago. To whom can I complain but to 
you ? for you have many a dismal correspondent ; in this 
time of joy my wife does not choose to hear me, because, 
she says, I 'm always melancholy when she *s in spirits. 
I have been to see the coronation, and a fine sight it was, 
as I am told, to those who had the pleasure of being near 
spectators* The diamonds, I am told, were as thick as 
Bristol stones in a show glass ; the ladies and gentlemen 
walked along, one foot before another, and threw their 



528 ESSAYS. 

eyes about them, on this side and that, perfectly like clock- 
work. O ! Mr. Printer, it had been a fine sight indeed, 
if there was but a little more eating. 

Instead of that, there we sat, penned up in our scaffold- 
ing, like sheep upon a market-day in Smithfield j but the 
devil a thing I could get to eat (God pardon me for swear- 
ing) except the fragments of a plum-cake, that was all 
squeezed into crumbs in my wife's pocket, as she came 
through the crowd. You must know, sir, that in order to 
do the thing genteelly, and that all my family might be 
amused at the same time, my wife, my daughter, and I, 
took two-guinea places for the coronation, and I gave my 
two eldest boys (who by the by are twins, fine children) 
eighteen-pence a-piece to go to Sudrick fair, to see the 
court of the black King of Morocco, which will serve to 
please children well enough. 

That we might have good places on the scaffolding, my 
wife insisted upon going at seven o'clock in the evening 
before the coronation, for she said she would not lose a 
full prospect for the world. This resolution, I own, 
shocked me. " Grizzle," said I to her, " Grizzle, my 
dear, consider that you are but weakly, always ailing, and 
will never bear sitting all night upon the scaffolding. You 
remember what a cold you got the last fast-day by rising 
but half an hour before your time to go to church, and 
how I was scolded as the cause of it» Besides^ my dear, 
our daughter Anna Amelia Wilhelmina Carolina will look 
like a perfect fright if she sits up ; and you know the 
girl's face is something at her time of life, considering her 
fortune is but small." " Mr. Grogan," replied my wife, 
" Mr. Grogan, this is always the case,, when you find me 



ESSAYS. 529 

in spirits ; I do n't want to go, not I, nor I do n't care 
whether I go at all ; it is seldom that I am in spirits, but 
this is always the case." In short, Mr. Printer, what will 
you have on 't ? to the coronation we went. 

What difficulties we had in getting a coach ; how we 
were shoved about in the mob ; how I had my pocket 
picked of the last new almanac, and my steel tobacco- 
box ; how my daughter lost half an eye-brow, and her 
laced shoe in a gutter; my wife's lamentation upon this, 
with the adventures of a crumbled plum-cake ; relate all 
these ; we suffered this and ten times more before we got 
to our places. 

At last, however, we were seated. My wife is certain- 
ly a heart of oak ; I thought sitting up in the damp night- 
air would have killed her ; I have known her for two 
months take possession of our easy chair, mobbed up in 
flannel night-caps, and trembling at a breath of air ; but 
she now bore the night as merrily as if she had sat up at 
a christening. My daughter and she did not seem to 
value it a farthing. She told me two or three stories 
that she knows will always make me laugh, and my 
daughter sung me " the noon-ticle air," towards one o'clock 
in the morning. However, with all their endeavors, I was 
as cold and as dismal as ever I remember. If this be 
the pleasures of a coronation, cried I to myself, I had 
rather see the court of King Solomon in all his glory, at 
my ease in Bartholomew fair. 

Towards morning, sleep began to come fast upon me ; 

and the sun rising and warming the air, still inclined me 

to rest a little. You must know, sir, that I am naturally 

of a sleepy constitution ; I have often sat up at a table 

45 



530 ESSAYS. 

with my eyes open, and have been asleep all the while. 
What will you have on 't ? just about eight o'clock in the 
morning I fell asleep. I fell into the most pleasing dream 
in the world. I shall never forget it ; I dreamed that I 
was at my lord-mayor's feast, and had scaled the crust of 
a venison-pasty ; I kept eating and eating, in my sleep, 
and thought I could never have enough. After some 
time, the pasty, methought, was taken away, and the des- 
sert was brought in its room. Thought I to myself, if I 
have not got enough of venison, I am resolved to make 
it up by the largest snap at the sweet-meats. According- 
ly I grasped a whole pyramid ; the rest of the guests see- 
ing me with so much, one gave me a snap, the other gave 
me a snap ; I was pulled this way by my neighbor on 
my right hand, and that way by my neighbor on the 
left, but still kept my ground without flinching, and con- 
tinued eating and pocketing as fast as I could. I never 
was so pulled and handled in my whole life. At length, 
however, going to smell to a lobster that lay before me, 
methought it caught me with its claws fast by the nose. 
The pain I felt upon this occasion is inexpressible; in 
fact, it broke my dream; when awaking I found my 
wife and daughter applying a smelling-bottle to my nose, 
and telling me it was time to go home ; they assured me 
every means had been tried to awake me, while the pro- 
cession was going forward, but that I still continued to 
sleep till the whole ceremony was over. Mr. Printer, 
this is a hard case, and as I read your most ingenious 
work, it will be some comfort, when I see this inserted, 

to find that 1 write for it too. 

I am, sir, Your distressed humble servant, 
L. Grogan. 



NOV 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 



